TEARS, FOREMAN, FOR WHO IS NOT AFRAID
Tears, foreman, for who is not afraid, in the little stress, while the engine pulls, in the flats over the tilled land. Group of the Uneven Trade, our dead alert in Excremore trees. Man, when winter made him, a wall and to the wall of the sun. Better they could read my back. Better they could see my body, to be all night, all day.