It was one of those mornings the earth seemed

    not to have had any rest at all， her face dour¹

    and unrefreshed， no particular place—— subway，

    park—— expressed sufficient interest in present circumstances

    though flowers popped up and tokens

    dropped down， deep in the turnstiles. And from

    the dovecots nothing was released or killed.

    No one seemed to mind， though everyone noticed.

    If the alphabet died—— even the o collapsing²， the l

    a lance in its groin—— what of it？ The question

    'krispies， flakes³ or loops？'—— always an indicator⁴ of

    attention—— took a turn for the worse， though crumpets

    could still be successfully toasted： machines worked，

    the idiom death warmed over was in use. By noon，

    postage stamps were half their width and worth

    but no one stopped licking. Neutrinos passed，

    undetected. Corpulent clouds formed in the sky.

    Tea was served at four. When the wind blew off a shingle⁵

    or two， like hairs， and the scalp of the house began

    to howl， not a roofer nailed it down. That was that.

    When the moon came out and glowed like a night light

    loose in its socket⁶， no one was captious⁷， cautious or wise，

    though the toes of a few behaved strangely in bed——

    they peeped out of the blankets like insects' antennae⁸，

    then turned into periscopes⁹ scouting¹⁰ to see

    if the daze¹¹ that was morning had actually managed to doze¹².