Our wounds to time, from all the other times,
sea-times slow, the times of galaxies
fleeing, the dwarfs' dead times,
lessen so little that if here in his crude rimes
Henry them mentions, do not hold it, please,
for a putting of man down.
Ol' Marster, being bound you do your best
versus we coons, spare now a cagey John
a whilom bits that whip:
who'll tell your fortune, when you have confessed
whose & whose woundingsâagainst the innocent stars
& remorseless seasâ
âAre you radioactive, pal? âPal, radioactive.
âHas you the night sweats & the day sweats, pal?
âPal, I do.
âDid your gal leave you? âWhat do you think, pal?
âIs that thing on the front of your head what it seems to be, pal?
âYes, pal.
