the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful
little bit of hallucination now you're really in the lake, stolen
night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of
Denver-joy to the last radio with the echoes of the tenement window, and
the last telephone emptied down to the door of my cottage in the
fog! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! dream and croak