Albeit
a renown tosses about the town,
an equal silence returns it.

A rerun,
that’s all this is -
the only way to explain the misplaced,
cross-laced habit of the orphaned matter
that knick-knacks the ankles of abode,

By the hair of the dog and the rising sun,
purity is in the coo-coo announcing the arrival
of the Monarch,
and with it the madness like the kissing of two petals,
in the break of a wave and also in the Sun,
and in all poetry of people.