XIV
                              Though what redeemed it were the words, the words,
King James            whether James or not-James—they consoled the mountains
                              they relieved the baby Christians though they
                              hardly understood why, they didn’t know
                              that much about words, they knew about pictures, they knew
                              about M. and his itchy beard and G. the trombone,
                              they loved the golden trombone, all seven positions
                              sliding and sliding—but there are two voices even if
                              one is nervous with apologies and
                              somehow voices are by their nature equal
                              at least I. thought that as he practiced voices
                              looking in the diamond mirrors and studying
                              the pies and cakes, and ate his cold broccoli,
                              preparatory to his short walk to
                              Madison Square and his meditation
Exodus                  on M. and G. in 19 and 20 and so on,
                              and how it was a voice, and voices, two voices,
                              both together and one at a time, and so on,
                              for pictures spoil and one of the voices even
Ex.                         said that and I.’s own favorite was 33,
Ex.                         only the back displayed, and 34,
                              a veil over his face, and I. himself
                              was a voice though he was sometimes occupied
                              and he was the other voice, for poetry
                              is like that.