for the ones we don't write

and they feel

this expresses well the

empty

tempting of

lachrymal glands

oh the quivering air

with its slivering sands of sun

the successive snow-tipped trees

mastheads: washed up men

wrapped in white sail

and all the stuff they see

oh

mississippi

roll on

for the ones

we don't write

just turn your head

and close your eyes

roll on, roll on

beneath the ice.