I don’t want any recognition but what recognition I don’t want
I want a lot of. At this stage a design in damp paper only

Remained a design abominable, as in inhuman, as in away
From human the simple matter, the carbon copied hocus
I cannot stand the pain of. It’s better that he should suffer
After all, in all, it was me, or him, and obviously me it
Couldn’t be—I’m not like other people. I can’t stand pain.
Do me a favor, Jack? Just don’t do me any more favors.
It hurts me. But anyway you look at it. Those intermittent
Sleeves approach ears. Not traces of tartar in the unreal reflection
Basin distortion intuits only but also the cartoon enigma
Our ancestors left of themselves in affectionate urgency
So that you are thinking what I am thinking and Jack
Is in lieu of being returned to, the main talk, the public
Talk if there had not been Jack as I don’t know. Way to be
Let, Jack. Into the ears you give provision up to nothing
And in so take body over to nothing, like a son
Who for a father shuttles sawlogs through bramble or in
Fact not like that at all, like a mistake, like asking much
Too much through the simple logic in sight, like a sky
Had been watching, or like none of those outshone
By morning stardom or like the perfect negative in stock
Relief. Thank, Jack, the opportunity. The holy plot
Overtook the rabbit where an end need not apply, where
Foundation continued to pour forth as hardly as asking
What one wanted to be found in, what one would be like
Afterwards too, what results one’s eyes are open to
For what one does not see, does not follow the light
In the sound box, where I am not, which is where I am
Facing which is like ceasing face in another language.