XXIX
                              And as for dawn, for he got up at four
                              o’clock the next morning there wasn’t one color
                              to speak of although the sun made a kind of highway
                              and you would say it went southeast although
                              that’s only describing the course of the river which though
                              it was East it wasn’t exactly east
                              and it was a brilliant highway, you’d have to say sparkling
                              and be forgiven, and it was delineated,
                              at least from where I stood, and there were watery
                              unlit shoulders, miles of shoulder, and I.
                              loved burning like that, it was the moment, he wanted to
                              shout something, when he got back he’d sit
                              with both his bibles but first he’d stop at the Cosmos
                              for eggs are eggs and if the sky was bland and
                              cloudless, it also was creamy and he would say
                              the highway that morning was a beam of light
                              and if it wasn’t “sparkling” at least it was glinting
                              and he couldn’t get over the freshness, in spite of the paper
                              and bottles and piled-up garbage and what had to be
                              hot subways and stinking buses and noise too
                              much to bear, then it started again, you’d call it
                              “pellucid distinctness of objects” and it has to
                              do with wind and water and light though I. was
                              tempted to call it by its other names.