He swings one foot in a moon silver. And it costs nothing. One more day . In Rabelais, Whitman, Hugo, In an oblong of moon mist. Out from the window . . . . prairielands.
Moon mist whitens a golf ground.
Whiter yet is a limestone quarry. The crickets keep on chirring. Chuff-chuff go the pulses. They beat in the cool of the night time. And the hones of the man.