| But the livery of the year, changing air |  |
| Brings each to his turn. Leaving phrases unfinished | |
| Gestures half-sketched against woodsmoke.Now oozes the abundant sap | |
| And in girls' throats the sticky words, half-uttered, half undesired | |
| Spreads XX annual unction. A blanket unbelief | |
| Quickly supplanted by idle questions that fade in turn. | |
| Slowly the moods turns to look at itself in the mirror of an urchin | |
| Left by some road-bed... New schemes are gotten up, new taxes, | |
| Earthworks spring up apace. Now all-conquering Sol | |
| gilds each new found reason with the celluloid coating of truth | |
| And girls wake up in it. | |
| For these reasons | |
| It is best not leave the house. Because there is | |
| Error in the exactness of air. As flames are fanned, so the wishful thinking arises | |
| That bears its own prophets, pointed refusals. And as a wish | |
| Settles down at the end of along spring day, over smudged heather and watered shoot, and dried rush field | |
| So fatal error gushes, ap ap XXXXXXXXXXXXXX is plaited into thoughts still unborn. | |
| The pose must be resumed. Is it being falsified | |
| To be forever involved, tragically, with one's own image? | |
| WithtXXXXX | |
