Such possessions as gore me pontificate from corners.
I am no longer solid but a speech of butterflies.
How it spills, when all is said and done:
It is hard to see virtue in the cold matter
Staining the floor - frills, cups, leaves, arquebuses,
Bile - the gross litters of meaning - the new king
Knitting up this mess in his brainless sinews,
Mere presence the answer to everything, the golden
Halo of a new dawn impressing all the peasants.