Shocks too enormous to heap and to absorb.
Seasons,
sorrow, so
plentiful an articulated herd can’t be made
out.
A downing if
repeated on
oneself. Suffocating within millions,
infinitesimal
unbreathing by.
The flag is dry, now slackened.
A dishrag’s
posture frieze:
stupefied aloft
Cooper Square’s quiet row. The people’s ill.
‘What morons’
sez cracked
skin, grime; chalk; slather; mooning, as
a lupine
abeyance
packed up,
lining across, just up – and just after – East
Houston.