I feel another cento coming on...

In a naked bed, in Plato's cave, this lovely day will lengthen into evening. We'll sigh goodbye to everything we ever knew. Alone, where we have walked together, I'll remember April and be glad. I won't be afraid. I loved you once in April. Your lips were warm, and love and spring were new. So I won't be afraid of Autumn and its sorrows, cause I'll remember, April and you. April is the cruellest month. April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, jack frost nipping at your nose. That one knew the eccentric to be the base of design.

Hedge crickets sing. From oriole to crow, note the decline in music. Crow is realist, but then, oriole, too, might be realist. Children picking up our bones will never know that these were once as qujick as foxes on the hill. Left what must have been the look of things. One must have a mind of winter to behold stately, plump, Buck Mulligan. Si creererán estos tontos que me engañan: esto es Leganés. Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain. Anyone lived in a pretty how town, what if a much of a which of a wind. My mind's not right. Con qué seguro paso el mulo en el abismo. How to improve the world (you'll only make things worse). I contain multitudes. A formal feeling comes. The bible is an antique volume; heavenly hurt it gives us. My days have grown so lonely, I sigh for you, for you my only. I'm all for you, body and soul. A sweet disorder in the dress. In rivers north of the future I cast my nets out, which you painstakingly load with words written by the shadows. You did not come.

Tell her that's fair and scorns to have her beauty seen. Last night I dreamed the strangest dream I ever dreamed before. My Momma said not to put beans in my ear, beans in my ears, beans in my ears. My Momma done tole me, when I was in knee-pants. My Momma done tole me, "Son...." A subject and a predicate made of glass. You have entered the narrow zone, your portrait etched in glass becoming less and less until the future faces you, like the mapie you hid. Music, when soft voices die.... Softly, in the dusk... taking me down the vista of years, till I see a child sitting under the piano.