I smell the marsh froth. Cindery campfires saw off at woodheaps. The scent struck off into April. I wear my soles like black parades Slipshod over the mind, and farscape Reproachful. Reproachless. In awe of the covered expanse. It is hard to believe how cold, or how joyous Is the thin shuddering warp Which is coerced, without taste In the depraved, saddened nutshell.