through the rowdy
kite-blue wind—
wind on which
surfs the slightly
succoring smell
of fruits turning
sour, and of leaves
decomposing.
Impressions—these
sensations which you
see, hear, and breathe—
are more than
a bit like the glut
of spare change
which clatters in your
pocket as you
saunter though the scene.
That is:
they're not more
than useless lumps
which rattle their capacities
away in your brain;
sooner or later,
they must be
extricated—passed around,
exchanged
for favors—
in order for them
to matter.
