Walking down into what seriously
affected his inner sympathies, what
was deep and complete, behind the dreamy
shimmer. Thick gamboge dragged across bistre.

The thousand repetitions of little
forms and what is bulking up amidst them.
The dark ox under the hedge suddenly
lollops into the headlights. The street which

twists left under the archway and flashes
two yellow windows. To nest in corners,
to hip the gables of the Genuine
Village. To take steps with Raw Sienna.

He has passed a thatched penthouse where they keep
their heavy roller, and an arbour where
two of them sit at a table, lamplit,
faces averted. White patch. A mob cap.
...