The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts,

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

It Is Night, And It Is Vanity, And Age Blackens The Heart Of Adam. Fear, The Yellow Chirper, Beaks Its Cage.

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.