i.
And what of the insatiable sadness of stepfathers

And her smeary mascara that slicks the rain

And the daub of red tape infecting a clean health bill

And what's with these singe-effects from the capitol bomb

And the dead telephone at the ear of a new generation

And when his welcoming smile widened like a crossbow

And how a wise oak lets in the new moon's eye

And the motel room with a stubbly kiss

And the jailbird in the yard firing rubber bullets

And the rotting fence surrounding the national comedy

And a white rosette for the bawdy little rich girl

And to wake after a decade shouting ‘malady malady!'

And the weekday orgasm of the academic coming on a Sunday

And how the crucifiers were struck by womb-lightning

And if the volcano would chirr just a little

And as they played jacks in the matron's office

And but for the sewage a smell of sweet sycamore

And the mind's polka played all through November

And the love gone to pot now cooks up the lobster

And with the years already shortening as it is