Like a housewife pacing down the sky.

Green weeds and tin-cans in the yard

Made a debris of ludicrous dissipations.

The ochre of cold elations

Had settled on the cans.

Their brilliant labels peeped from the weeds,

Like the remains of a charlatan.

A bone reclined against a fence-post

And mouldily congratulated life.

A woman’s garter wasted its faded frills