On the second-last page this: moonglade infatuator consummated
Resurrection monger a misprint maybe or the transcribbler
labored sloppily in some sublanguage not his own o when will
time discharge the blabbing category? Each word fails strangely
and in such dancing measures with smoky rifts between
the dancers playing on each other's nerves the piecewise
budless flash across natural barriers each delimiter a little
too natural menacing hypotheses and all things remembering
all other things like little cocktail dresses canned chicken and
chain-link fences the tune "He herde the notes small Of byrds"
stays in the air but where he himself went has only one answer
in the ear and hateful like blowzy saints their perpetual quirks
red hat, book, pike, electric fan these lofting plans turned over
and over in the course of a summer hopeful as putting on windclothes.