On the long hoary streetside—a young-
ish man,
thin and lovely
stooped and
crying feebly over
not!—the wasted coagulum
of pinkwhite
ice cream puddling
there
before his lusty
stubborn feet—but rather,
without
even knowing it—his own growing clot
of confusion regarding
enjoyment!—which seems as though
it ought
to continually
ooze in
at all times
from all places—with
true joy—
and the sweet cold brave
freedom begotten
when and wherever
it pours forth
from the only
space
that it can
and it must—deep inside.
