from Time Travel: 1922

The prediction was fulfilled: form
was bound to be a fashionable
path leading slowly but surely
to the cemetery of content. Oh, well.
There was no way to get even, you thought,
to side, for more than a minute, that is,
with the laconic children of the diffused.

Like a shiver of a perfect idea in an empty theatre,
summer, you knew, wouldn’t last
very long. But here in the juncture
of nervous conclusions you could
hardly tell if the dark shapeless clothes
that wrap around any new experience
were motionless or if they were pacing
toward you, about to break some
burdening and unpopular news.

Read the rest here.