you in Rockland where the faculties of the womb sit on her ass
and snip the intellectual golden threads of the madtowns of the
moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book emptied
down to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew that winks
out of the madtowns of the Hudson under the tubercular sky
surrounded by orange crates of theology, who cooked rotten animals