I walk through soggy hallways of the rain
And, past the bins of dried up daily bread,
Meander to the pavements of the dead
With a glass squirrel chewing in my brain.
Its trembling paws adroitly turn and nurse
The fastened thought upon its screwed up features,
And with the long range eyes of silent creatures
It looks right through me at the universe.
There comes a sound of planets and of power
Upon the sloped horizon’s grassy eaves:
And can I stand, and will the brain endure
With stars stampeding down my final hour?
Of this, however, I am not quite sure.
My squirrel scurries up a cloud of leaves.
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