These are the problems which inhabit the imagination
Tincture of opium, redolent eucalyptus balm
The constituent order fails
At any attempted rescue, the end of a soft brown epoch
Some things were marvelous: Bring on the Byzantine
The gilded orient spoiling Venice’s moldy sewer
“Why must they build their capitals on swamps?”
Paris! London! Moscow!
We find remaining fragments bizarre
It’s the mulch of the Cul de Sac
Tempting our languor with that dead clutter sensation
“I’m like a fallow field.”
The party’s over and we remember this.