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In Peter's Chair the Pope was Joan. Never mind that it didn't work out - a project as impractical as his unpatented, unpatentable energy-saving boiler-part, an idea to strike it rich, worked at and re-worked for years.
Wolf note to which I'm perfectly attuned. Leave us to pin back a vine or a bolted Rose armed for murder or, sloshing in The ruts, to pick muddy violets.
In the alleys swifts scream, tilt and fade Above light commerce. Bugs plug its leaf sheaths, dust if you don't look close.
Standing water, the pools and the flooded fields, are smashed holes in the stained-glass green. You must be willing to try things that will not work. Look how thin, Look at his skin, Look at his eyes that Let the dark in. Exterminates the brutes as you whack a rabbit annoyingly forcing air through its windpipe like a pinched, deflating balloon.
Exuberant as drink The split peach of their sex. Then railways silence the white road. The ground took our reproach.
Where a door opens, Coin is taken, and a hermaphrodite Shows him upstairs, to the lewd Mithraic rites On the mezzanine. On the other side of the plot, family to comfort.
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