No! The realities keep off out rear,
And front ads in the shops
with irrupting,
Posts rubbed up still pickling
in linseed,
The woodsheet hanging suppressing doors
a lie about the sham undermetal,
You and I would adore the undermetal!
So smoke runs nostrils back out
from the forklifts, and green chill
of moss
scales grease
on pump-taps,
And canning the seiner tilts to moving
gillblood
alive in diesel of the second load,
Halibut dynamized the canal of Lynn,
The starfish are hidden in oil,
Stay with me mapping these epic poems:
