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Things tell less and less: The news impersonal And from afar; no book Worth wrenching off the shelf. Liquor brings dizziness And food discomfort; all Music sounds thin and tired, And what picture could earn a look? The self drowses in the self Beyond hope of a visitor. Desire and those desired Fade, and no matter: Memories in decay Annihilate the day. There once was an answer: Up at the stroke of seven, A turn round the garden (Breathing deep and slow), Then work, never mind what, How small, provided that It serves another's good But once is long ago And, tell me, how could Such an answer be less than wrong, Be right all along? Vain echoes, desist.

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