A sort of cypress reached
Halfway up the longer window;
I came to live here, all the same.

It’ll never be built, that house, 
what do you say. There he stands, 
the old man, 

Your camping lantern shone among
the cottonwoods. It was then
I should have come. Watching—

Professor Palamedes darts down Westow Street.
Nothing explains how he avoids
Colliding with mutton, plastics, pianos.

Since last September I’ve been trying to describe
Two moonstone hills,
And an ochre mountain, by candle light, behind.