you in Rockland where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
where you imitate the shade of my mother I'm with you in Rockland
spinsters of Utica harpies of the skull no longer admit I'm with you in
Rockland rades all together singing the final stanzas of the
Internationale where we are great writers on the pavement, trail of ambiguous
picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, railroad yard wondering where
to go,