(the phonograph’s voice like a keen spider skipping
 
quickly over patriotic swill.
The,negress,in the,rocker by the,curb,tipping
 
and tipping,the flocks of pigeons.  And the skil-
 
ful loneliness,and the rather fat
man in bluishsuspenders half-reading the
Evening Something
                      in the normal window.  and a cat.
 
A cat waiting for god knows makes me
 
wonder if i’m alive(eye pries,
 
not open.  Tail stirs.)  And the. fire-escapes—
the night. makes me wonder if,if i am
the face of a baby smeared with beautiful jam
 
or
 
  my invincible Nearness rapes
 
laughter from your preferable,eyes

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