Carlyle can see
from the bottom of his hole, all
glorioso, strangely—
                               oh why—

               What other
in his brown brain—fur, his
luxurient/opulous, knows more
or better, any

*

Carlyle's garden runs a little ravaged, wild.

*

Carlyle sings the news with soul & lip waggle—

*

When he shakes his tail—
bone, vertebrae fly.

*

Carlyle's contagions confound
the uninspired, vex chance—

Carlyle is spore, & mild.
He is swoon & sherbet.

*

When Carlyle—then
Carlyle.
               Crow
comes down—lugubriously—
hollers: Wrong! Carlyle! Wrong!

*

surrounded by rock-miles
& nowhere, who
shouts—or doesn't—dozens
                         —o, Ruth
sly, solip-
sism—schism—swag
& rosy—reclines, creaking,
sippering rue-
rum—sorry. . . 
                   Love—
Love I was wrong.
What. a. day.
                   Jig—
skip & vanish—who
once was and still
is—sighs, and puts up her huge
white feet.
                   Carlyle shouts: Un-
lock your hair—off!
with your hat, let's begin
& end, at once.
         Ruth, I rue . . . o, o, o

(If Carlyle is Carlyle/Ruth . . . who am I?   o, o, o)