The eager note on my door said "call me." Anyone lived in a pretty how town. My father moved through dooms of love through haves of am. My father in downtown red walked around through shadows of ink black, with hat, nodding, in the immemorial lights of my dreams. And I have since dreamt of Lowell. Remember our lists of birds? Voces de muerte sonaron, cerca del Guadalquivir. Silent, upon a peak in Darien. The flashy female with her mother gets it, the Jew gets it straight. It is the inquisition, the revolution. It is beauty itself that lives in them daily. Over the flower sharp pasture's edge. Was there another Troy for her to burn? Who will go drive with Fergus now, the young in one another's arms, birds in the trees, were nine and fifty swans. The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me since I first made my count. I saw, before I had well finished, all suddenly mount. The small yellow grass onion, precursor to Manhattan's pavements, when, cooked as it comes, in bunches, though inclined to be a little slimy... The descent beckoned as the ascent beckoned. That they have flowers also in hell. Of asphodel, that greeny flower, I come. Silent upon a peak. Much have I travelled in the realms of gold. Good fences make good neighbors, then took the other, just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim because it was grassy and wanted wear. Though as for that the passing there had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay. Hiram, she said, the sump backed up, a little bird, I think, has wandered through the pipes, and all's gone wrong. These little children singing in stone. All in green when my love riding, on a great horse of gold, into the silver dawn. Semi-articulate flakes. Silent. Drive he sd. Like the ingredients of a witches brew. And the best part of it is they grow everywhere. Conspiring with him how to load. Marsh-crickets sing. Why should I blame her that she turned my days to misery? A peak in Darien. Stout Cortez. Drive he sd.