Without which the tits, anxious rabbits, sit up on their haunches no longer in the sun nibbling grasses, but cower, fine fat alertnesses pressed flat, who sense the raptor’s presence. And the chin, ample in its sympathy, sinks down laying the folded pleats of its old coat upon the lawn to lap the dew. Must the cunt, too, lament this loss? Atrophies dwindle once- trophied glades, whose rivulets rinsed the helmets of kings? What balm, after lush spring and summer’s flush fall dumb, to say wisdom will come pressing its cool cabbage leaf across my brow? Let all perfumes perish now. This insistence clocks can be stopped with resistance insults. The one relief at certain age is being sage enough at last to admit when I feel bereft. I’ve little time left for lies meant to anesthetize grief.