"The snails have made a garden of green lace: broderie anglaise from the cabbages, chantilly from the choux-fleurs, tiny veils- I see already that I lift the blind upon a woman's bedroom of the mind. Such female whimsy floats about me like a kind of tulle, a flimsy mesh, while feet in gum boots pace the rectangles— garden abstracted, geometry awash— an unknown theorem argued in green ink dropped in the bath.

Euclid in glorious chlorophyl, half drunk. I none too sober slipping in the mud where rigged with guys of rain the clothesline gauche as the rangey skeleton of some gaunt delicate spidery mute is pitched as if listening, while hung from one thin rib its skeletal infant, similar in shape, now sagged with sequins, pulled ellipsoid and glistening."