The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.