But how?
ought we
proceed
to breathless-
ly behold—
the lovely look
of any little
thing that arrests us—when, for instance
that impossibly
clean—and comely smoke
of purest cold—
tinged so
beguilingly reddish-
gold by the gaudy
and
charmingly soulless
morning sun
that wreathes around
such pretty lines
of glinting
idle expressway cars—
is the very same stuff
that's making
our breathing
more than
a little
interestingly hard?
