Percy Quillwort

They scattered on an empty street
Pages blowing like leaves
Rustling
(rustling)
...

Moccasins on my crestfallen feet,
I took the first bus to Guam.
I hack my tobackey and grind my slack jaw,
My spirit yet lingers in old Vietnam.
...

i took a step out to the edge of that great white bird
without thinking, my hand went toward
a flash of beak!
and I was dead
...

He strikes the langosta with the steak (or stake!) knife,
Again and again, again-again-again, strangely metered, repeated, heated, harsh jabs of the lance,
I want to stand, cry, shriek, «¡Pero señor, el torro ya está muerto! »
But the bloodthirsty crowd cries for more, and the matador plunges his sword
...