No man, before or since, has gazed
With such abandon at my face.
The net he built to capture me now
Lays in the corner of a forgotten field
Of hay. The hallways now remain
In their cold, clean, clincism where

Death, like a spectre,
Meanders the river-run
Of wires and tubes.

No-man, before or since, has gazed
With blank abandon at his face.
Pallor stains the tear-dropped face
Of God, and Santa, and all that’s holy.
We threw words at the air. We heard
The Morse reply that it He is

Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.