| Through a hole in the half-full cardboard case, the skaters can be seen. |  |
| At this stage everything depends on a special bottle | |
| Covered by its tin case, and a second glass beneath | |
| The bottle in its position, or two bottles instead. | |
| Again, the cases are put over the bottles, and again they | |
| Are raised, nipping the special bottle with its | |
| Two linings, and the space for the glass to stand within its | |
| Dumb patina. There are many false starts, and you can | |
| Choose among them. Obliged to play with two or more, you | |
| May not know the skaters' false chips, in the night of turns | |
| Coming back once again the anchor of morning. Now your only chance is to begin over. | |
| Secretly dip the point of the glass rod in oil of vitriol, and touch the mass. | |
| Few of them were present on that occasion: | |
| The teacher, and a few friends. It is necessary to trace each letter | |
| Of the alphabet quite a few times to get them right. | |
| The "c's" and "i's" can resemble each other quite a lot. | |
| Now loosen the writing a little, and presently it will spread | |
| On the farm landscape. The squares are called "White" and "Black" whatever their actual color may be. | |
| For invisible writing, dip a quill in some goose grease and write | |
| On the pad. Then dust some powdered charcoal over the surface | |
| And the magic writing will appear. | |
| For plain writing | |
| Try beginning with an easy word, such as "neck." | |
| We children are ashamed of our bodies | |
| But we laugh and, demanded, talk of sex again | |
| And all is well. The waves of morning harshness | |
| Float away like coal-gas into the sky. | |
| But how much survives? How much of any one of us survives? | |
| The articles we'd collect--stamps of the colonies | |
| With greasy cancellation marks, mauve, magenta and chocolate, | |
| Or funny looking dogs we'd see in the street, or bright remarks. | |
| One collects bullets. An Indianapolis, Indiana man collects slingshots of all epochs, and so on. | |
| Subtracted from our collections, though, these go on a little while, collecting aimlessly. We still support them. | |
| But so little energy they have! And up the swollen sands | |
| Staggers the darkness fiend, with the storm fiend close behind him! | |
| True, melodious tolling does go on in that awful pandemonium, | |
| Certain resonances are not utterly displeasing to the terrified eardrum. | |
| Some paroxysms are dinning of tambourine, others suggest piano room or organ loft | |
| For the most dissonant night charms us, even after death. This, after all, may be happiness: tuba notes awash on the great flood, ruptures of xylophone, violins, limpets, grace-notes, the musical instrument called serpent, viola da gambas, aeolian harps, clavicles, pinball machines, electric drills, que sais-je encore! | |
| The performance has rapidly reached your ear; silent and tear-stained, in the postmortem shock, you stand listening, awash | |
