How did he go over? No one laughed
when he was wittiest, or loved him when
he was a saint. No reason not, on that account, to look
for funninesses and
forgivabilities in things. The mini-series
miseries, the comedies of men
the loves harpooned, the songs unsung,
the anima in animus, the child
that, in his wisdom, Rover bit.
A world's a work. The winding
winded kind of wit
a hill wept into shape, with ha-has
stitching down the sides, tricked out in ribs
and sob-stabs. How does anyone
get over it?