Their Monument Sticks Like A

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot