The orchard grew excellent,
Good mass of apples assembling, one angel burned, looped
On the wire fence, in a bowl of gold most satisfactory.

“Have a lot of folks over for dinner and walk”
Thus spoke Gertrude Stein bellyaching about Manhood.

Fashionable windiness to gear sworn statements into hungry keys

Back at San Francisco Greyhound, leaning / and I’m not thinking or yearning / I’m just leaning.

Lie facedown in the pulsating mantra:
                                         dried flowers bathed in sunshine
Of slowly submerging monograms

this is Walt Whitman speaking

I’ll compare Jew-love to Roman light,
stone palazzi in travellers’ perspectives
obelisks and domes,

The scenes that were on the inside of his ribs,
when he willed them outward, they appeared,
tattooed, in front, behind, strips of pictures

The real is a wilderness
that ambitions calls a garden.

“Well, what’d you dream of this time, Gorbunov?”
“Oh, mushrooms, mostly.” “Mushrooms! What the hell!
Again?” “Again.” “You really make me laugh.”

Down in the lobby three elderly women, bored.
Take up, with their knitting, the Passion of Our Lord
        As the universe and the tiny realm