A bath, tin words, the stranger
just so, declined to cognizance.
One waits, or is tomorrow a
vision, the race for the new here.
A subtle, sky-ridden anybody asking
those islands to last, which, incidentally,
I’d thought the woman was shouting:
“Last time! My face is your delicate frost.”
There was you, coming up to me,
a whisper about the Romans–
what was done.
That surpassed as much for you,
and you for everyone to see,
still the shadows toward the white. . .