—A sunlit lot. Clear-cut.
                Slash smoulders. Crabs of a beer-
colored grass. A torn-up midden heap,

I tell the child not to curse the stones:

The one in the bed feels for the other,
The one in the mill is alone with the wheels,
And in the field, one figure just keeps going.

Stately, green-shuttered, midwestern
In its space of grass. The House;
But beyond this, weeds in the buckling tar.

Death will come and have your eyes.
This one, the one who abides
morning to night, the deaf one,

After a while he reaches the sea, parts the waters thru the blowing of his nostrils

None of the townspeople raise their voice for, naturally, they make up the bulk of the payroll.

After a brief vacation, his next effort will be to find the most effective method of voiding waste products from the body.

The country was therefore sealed off, all foreigners were expelled, and the cities were emptied.

‘Today, I finally met God’, he says as he enters the Oracle’s alleged chamber