A yak is a prehistoric cabbage; of that, we can be sure.
To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.
I don't want to read what is going to slide down easily; there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.
Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.