To feel the kreeth of Morning touch my lips,
Where Ocean plays with his smaranthian ships.
NEARSIGHT
When Spruggles takes his glasses off, he sees.
Globular people strut like walking trees
Through a strange, oozy mist that melts to air
Some thirty feet before his blinking stare
And all the edgy corners of the streets
Are puffed and bulged like bottle-’scaped Afreets!
—There are no definitions. All is dim.