Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.