Going again to tussle with the night-horns,
wrestling the delirium bull, fed intravenous
sweetmeats to the heart. There is no fate
that treads these pitiless paths unworthily.

An automatic curse, your gun at slant,
trailing bags from Filene’s, a copper circlet;
the walls yawn pink and gorgeous. Yes,
I care, but completely and indivisibly.

No use in a world of tangent circumstance
and woe. On moccasined feet, here they come,
returning with candy, caterpillars in aspic,
all the fun of the hectic, sugared fair.

I must press on, he’s breathing deep,
his beautiful chest scattered across Breakheart Pass
in a cloak of gutturals and mesh,
and all around the bright gems swoop and crow.