the norfolk that swamped
the rolled cuffs-

the fancy british cases or delicate letterings-
'fish' and 'sword' and others, it was-

breathing heavily
(as if the air were subtropical, wrought
of oxidized iron and
stamped regally-
about the harbors) the salt licking
deeper into

a wounded place-
marker. of stone. like most of
all stone-

very few stand to reason-
it should "not have been"

the age of classicism slums about norfolk on late
Thursdays or the beginnings of Friday when
last September's warmth gapes at the
licentious eye of the harbor, scraping the great ships
or declaring with verbose reasoning
that all debts
have been
paid by nature

or the return
to It-

"as thru' the needle-eyes of all the
orators who when they die stand for moments
on the crashing shores they of politic and
candor who require the true-word meaning
behind discourse and societal logic"

he repeats
the mechanisms.
they are inherent
now like property-

and "in norfolk" the sun laps to water as it
cools in masses of repleted hydrogen, thrown
outwards as blue-violet-

wet and
beach-sand. his

monologue was over when the books closed