E. P.

Nothing matters on the other hand the quality of the affection,

neither the bicyclist riding by means of in her black baseball cap

nor the three tree I planted in my back yard,

I should say four counting the small apple

nailed to my neighbor's palings nor can I

discount the memory he had of Ferdie and Fordie,

prick and snob although he was. But I not ever trusted his

paradise, it was too literary, nor his

final confession, nor what he said to Ginsberg

imagine, imagine-nor, ah, the endles self-pity

taking the place of character, for a like reason un-Kung

after all, although there were sum of two units paradises,

weren't there, lying master that he was, and

one was a close up garden of pear trees, dancing Nancy.

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