Talking About The Past Is Like A

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

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

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.