Now we are going mad not saying goodbye 
in elmed Milwaukee evening, everyone here—
Aunt May and Margaret, and Tom John’s limpid eye

The world is white, twig tracked by wrens,
supposed color of innocence,
swanned with snow on hedge and fence.

Arachne laughed. “You wartier than a toad
old crone, what do you know of artwork, ragged
hag, calling me too beautiful and bold