Parading

we were cured—had advanced

The train whistle still wails its ancient sound

We must admit there will be music despite everything.

Say goodbye to disaster. Shake hands

it must have been that I was drowsing, I’d been tired all day long.

Sometimes I think I understand the way things work

No horizon-honing here, no angst in the anthill.

The soprano faints rather than hitting that highest

you’d think here is

What bright angels of the pharmakon