If I Rest, If I Think Inward,

Only I Wasn't Steering Anything, Not Even Myself.

Perhaps, Perhaps This Would Be The One To Pull Me Out Of My Plunge.

Maybe Forgetfulness, Like A Kind Snow, Should Numb And Cover Them. But They Were A Part Of Me. They Were My Landscape.

I Had Removed My Patent Leather Shoes After A While, For They Foundered Badly In The Sand. It Pleased Me To Think They Would Be Perched There On The Silver Log, Pointing Out To Sea, Like A Sort Of Soul-compass, After I Was Dead.

I Felt Overstuffed And Dull And Disappointed, The Way I Always Do The Day After Christmas.