A boy drowns in a lake. Another opens
his head against a steering wheel. Another
goes downtown. Into a boardroom. Into

From where I watched, the shiny satellite 
Almost occluded summer Sirius. 
I might have sworn they’d touch and set the night 

I took the pill of estradiol. My feet hurt.

The English bowler hat was worn by Charlie Chaplin. He used it as a prop in his slapstick comedy routines. In so doing, he abused a most genteel hat.

Cockney tears, red, white
and blue tears, touching-
only-to-his-mother-tears.

I enter a room where a fan seems to be chanting
“Air! Air! Air!” as it whirrs. I see it’s not
the fan, after all, but a child facing the wall

Arriving there just after dark 1 see that the draw-bridge has been raised. I compare my situation to that of a piece of luncheon meat destined for a sandwich, only to find that the bread it was supposed to occupy is already accounted for.

I have implied
a garden. It is wish-
fulfillment.

I never had a toothache, but the desire to have one crossed my mind constantly. 

After the rape & the bloodbath, the savage king
& his men retired to a long shed built in an open
field by a thin river fashioned for this lull in the pillaging
so the horses could rest.