It's late to pick up what is broken:
That little world can't creep back now
Shan't grow. Just an uncertain susurrus
Defeating any resolution but an aching disgust.
We dream on, though, of ludicrous blossomings
Little prettyings & things beyond – beyond what?
What language? What vast burden yet of order?
Can't get at it, all a living bundle
Writhing & semi-articulated as displayed nerves
A sensate world self-destructively faithful to its final rite.