Summer Despite

Who's wound his arm around

Another's shoulders

Without much interest but in

Selling, selling-

Where the moosehead malingers,

There sips he.

SUMMER DESPITE

Running, running, until straightened twists .

Of fog behind him stretch among the crags

Like hasty streets, down rocks and over beach

Comes at dawn the single runner-It is as if

Ardor made order here-though the idly apropos,

Extraneous thighs he rides and his feet bepraising

Nothing but sand and running (o for what sake)

More by disvalue recommend the sun-and always

The one wave racing in van with this wooer

Until far off he plunge for no more reason.