We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

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.

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

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.