Image Marriages

The beautiful peephole lets us see the way The others live, and they live lavishly, Blowing their soft-won millions on a spree. If we could be them, only for a day! The beautiful peephole shows us the high style, Champagne and velvet, the stretch limousine, The latest sprinklings in the new cuisine - Not ours, not even for a little while. The beautiful peephole lets us see into The dressing rooms of stars, and lets us see The star herself undressing carelessly Until a mechanism shuts the view, but not before we've taken in the scope Of all we ’ ll never have, the thrills, the laughs, Savannahs full of emus and giraffes, And swallowed a little poison pill of hope Whose toxins start to glaze the inner eye Through which we see our ordinary lives, The same old jobs and problems, husbands and wives, With shimmers of the possibility It could be altogether otherwise. And that slight sparkle changes how we feel About ourselves and all we know is real. We close o...

All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I'd started from; And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood. Over these things I could not see; These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all. But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I'll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And—sure enough!—I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I 'most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch...

The leopard cannot change his spots Into stars or polka-dots. The tiger cannot change her stripes (“I wish I could,” she sometimes gripes.) The scales remain upon the fish Though that is sometimes not his wish. The kangaroo can try and try But she will never learn to fly. The cat can’t bark, the dog can’t purr, The rabbit cannot change her fur. The frog can leap but he can’t walk, The lark can sing but she can’t talk. Since we can’t be what we are not, Let’s all be grateful for our lot. Lesléa Newman joobatistadeandradesilva

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold:— Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men.” The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. Leigh Hunt Peter Stewart , Peace Amid Chaos

(Matthew 5:44) Did he really say that? Never despise our enemies? Give love to those who hate, who injure, sabotage, or vandalize, who curse, demean us, and humiliate? Yes, he turns the world upside-down: no “eye for an eye,” but “blessed are the meek” who fortify themselves with grace to drown their angry rage and turn the other cheek. “Love your enemies” commandeth the Lord, Don’t plot against them, hate, or condemn, for human vengeance merits no reward. Instead, do good to them. And pray for them. And love them in your pains, in your disgrace, even when they spit into your face. William Baer from Psalter, A Sequence of Catholic Sonnets Blue Roofs, Blue Sea, White Walls - Oia, Santorini Greece,  Geee Kay

General Ludendorff, two years before, Had pushed the concept in his Total War, And so it seemed a perfect time to see If one could undermine an enemy By striking its civilian population. This proved a most effective innovation, As the defenseless ancient Basque town learned: Three quarters of its buildings bombed and burned, Its children and young wives were blown to bits Or gunned down, when they fled, by Messerschmitts. Shocked condemnations poured forth from the press, But Franco triumphed; and, buoyed by success, The Luftwaffe would similarly slam Warsaw and Coventry and Rotterdam. Berlin cheered these developments; but two Can play such games—and usually do— No matter how repellent or how bloody. And Churchill was, as always, a quick study And would adopt the tactic as his own, Sending the RAF to blitz Cologne. Devising better ways to carpet-bomb  (Which later were employed in Vietnam), The Allies, in a show of aerial might, Incinerated Dresden in a...

Stars seem eternal shining from on high, Impossibly far, yet brilliant and intense, But when at last they lack for sustenance To feed the flame, then even stars must die; And some go Nova, blazing through the sky In an explosion, violent and immense, Then falling inward to a point so dense They form a black hole, hidden from the eye. And this love, that shines out from afar, When there is nothing left to feed the blaze, Will it go Nova, exploding everywhere, And then fall inward like a dying star, Into a point where neither light nor space Nor time exist: a black hole of despair? Marion Shore Cosmic Response for Marion Shore First image of a black hole, in a galaxy called Messier 87, about 55 million light-years away from Earth. ,, This supermassive black hole is believed to be seven billion times bigger than our sun

Happy the tree that scarcely feels a thing! And happier still the nothing-feeling stone! No pain exceeds the pain that living brings; and grief attends the conscious life alone. To be, yet not to know. No path ahead. The fear of having been, and future fright . . . The dread of knowing soon we will be dead but only after suffering through the night what we can’t grasp, nor hardly can we guess; the flesh that tempts us like a grape or plum, the tomb that waits for us with wreathes; and yes, not knowing where we’re heading, even less knowing whence we come. Robert Schechter from String Poet translated from the Spanish of Rubén Darío LO FATAL Dichoso el árbol, que es apenas sensitivo, y más la piedra dura porque ésa ya no siente, pues no hay dolor más grande que el dolor de ser vivo ni mayor pesadumbre que la vida consciente. Ser, y no saber nada, y ser sin rumbo cierto, y el temor de haber sido y un futuro terror... ¡Y el espanto seguro de estar mañana muerto,...

Each day at ten o’clock he leaves his house, drives seven miles, then turns to go into the county nursing home to see his spouse who’s seated at a table with a view — green hillsides and a garden filled with flowers. “She slept well,” the aide says, a hopeful thing, as night-time usually gives birth to hours of restless labyrinthine wanderings. He sits beside her chair and reaches out to gently stroke her fragile vein-lined hand, sensing that one day soon he’ll be without this one he loves and strives to understand, then counts the wrinkles on her aged face, each one to him an ornament of grace. Sharon Fish Mooney from String Poet Undulating Wood, Regina Valluzzi

Lift the stone and you will find me, cleave the wood and I am there; in the stillness of the water, in the earth and in the air. In the light of winter evening when the trees stretch gaunt and bare, in the dark when moon is hidden, I am there, oh I am there. In the heartbeat, in the bloodstream, in the muscle, fibre, cell, I am pulsing, I am quickening... I am in decay as well; In the rankness of the garden unattended, run to seed, I am dwelling, glorifying every creature, every weed. In the cancer, in the warhead, in the evil, pain, despair, in the dying, and destruction, you will find me, I am there. Richard Skinner Boots,  Sarah E Coulson

my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night my father moved through depths of height this motionless forgetful where turned at his glance to shining here; that if (so timid air is firm) under his eyes would stir and squirm newly as from unburied which floats the first who, his april touch drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates woke dreamers to their ghostly roots and should some why completely weep my father’s fingers brought her sleep: vainly no smallest voice might cry for he could feel the mountains grow. Lifting the valleys of the sea my father moved through griefs of joy; praising a forehead called the moon singing desire into begin joy was his song and joy so pure a heart of star by him could steer and pure so now and now so yes the wrists of twilight would rejoice keen as midsummer’s keen beyond conceiving mind of sun will stand, so strictly (over utmost him so hugely...

How do I know, when silent emptiness is all I meet, that I’m not talking to myself, just trying vainly to impress the void? In short, how do I know there’s You? Lovers when kept apart send cards and gifts, spend costly hours on the telephone, will run together by all risks, all shifts — will You? Or can You? Or am I alone like Earth among the planets, sending out my frantic signal, seeking a reply from wiser, older worlds? How quench the doubt that You may not be You but only I? How can I know You love unless You pour out miracles? How can I not crave more? Gail White first published in  14 by 14 Dimitris Makrygiannakis

Most astrophysicists agree there was a big bang long ago; and, based on microwaves, foresee the distant outcome. Apropos, regardless if it’s ice or ash, it seems they still cannot unlock the secret of the awesome flash that launched the ticking cosmic clock. Time. Ours to waste, to keep and kill; to make, to mark, to bide and buy; which, in its mystic fullness, will reveal not only how, but why. But in the meantime, here’s the odds — dark energy, or God, or gods. Catherine Chandler first published in  14 by 14 hyperspace,  Samuele Errico Piccarini

The squirrel in the attic of his brain Shreds photographs, pulls memories apart. The old dog in the basement of his heart Howls, lonely, soft, monotonous as rain. And somewhere further underneath, a snake In hibernation stirs, irked by its skin. Up where the world’s news and supplies come in Through the five senses of his face, to make The room in which a garrulous parrot squawks And sometimes songbirds sing — it’s his belief Mice gnaw behind the wainscots of his teeth. The cat of consciousness, impassive, walks Toward the door to go out for the night: Is everything (oh dog, shut up!) all right? Robin Helweg-Larsen [ Previously published in Visions International (US), October 2007 ] Redmer Hoekstra,  Redmer Hoekstra

We’re at an age when honesty is best; When flattery no longer has a role. Unvarnished truth should never be suppressed While we acknowledge aging’s stealthy toll. I cannot say you look as you once did: The way we once appeared, appears no more. The decades lived together can’t be hid For time has made us different from before. It isn’t right to try to shade the facts; It’s silly to ignore what’s plain to see For nothing can occur to take us back To how we were and how life used to be. In candor’s name, I say without regret: You’re way more foxy now than when we met. John Byrne first published in 14 by 14 “There, there. I know it was your favorite, but we’ll find another.”  Kitty Kono

Where did I get the idea I should save you? You didn’t need saving; you were just complex: a mix of all the attributes I gave you, plus those you had yourself. Oh, it was sex and mystery and beauty; also, quiet and shyness, inability to say what drove, or did not drive you. Now a riot of teasing contradictions, who would play games I would have no clue to; next a clinging girl who adored, and didn’t know what to do. A nun at prayer, but then a siren singing. I’d look; I’d stare. All, all of them were you: that host; that precious horde I had to see to; that magic chest I could not find the key to! Bruce Bennett Emily M,  AndrewPaul@Oxford

In second grade, someone posed the riddle: Which was the heavier: a pound of lead, Or a pound of feathers? With no middle Choice left, anyone with a practical head Declared himself for the weight of metal, Which had, at least, the feel of solid logic, Though the more cynical came to settle On eider, guessing that it was all a trick. But those who argued the two were the same Were hounded as show-offs and worse was done To girls who tried to get into the game. We would allow two sides to each question; Which one you chose didn’t matter much to us, But not choosing sides — that was dangerous. Christopher Bullard Peacock Profile,  John Small

One retrogressive April within the biting breeze I felt the tooth of winter. I saw the tulips freeze before their buds unfolded. I saw the apple trees retract their pink pronouncements, while, skirting melodies, the shivering finches stuttered. Potentialities are prone to unexpected frosts, and so I learned from these to uproot from my heart a few blighted felicities. Marion H. Flanigan Reto semanal 183. Luz de buenos días,  Mónica Martínez

The questions come out neatly one by one. Son, each one has an answer that’s precise; No room for thinking here as, like a gun, The mind fires out the answers. Here a voice Whispers loud its knowledge like a boast, All that can be known for certain’s here: There are winners, there are losers as we toast A world where each question’s answered clear, A world where simplicity prevails. Outside this circle nothing’s answered thus, This futile show of certainty that fails Every decent question asked of us. So spit out all the answers while you can Before the questions come that make a man. Gabriel Fitzmaurice Infinite Void,  Raul Mendoza

‘They’re hanging me this evening,’ Mary says, Or else it’s a transplant she must have, But her concern’s observing the Fast Days (The cares of childhood follow to the grave); ‘Am I going to mass on Sundays?’ she repeats (How the good are frightened of their church); All we can do is comfort with deceit; She’s satisfied, and then begins to search For biscuits, the indulgence of her life— She’d eat them by the packet were she let, A humble and obedient country wife; Everything we tell her she’ll forget, But not the past—the past is as today Where she was damned unless she would obey. Gabriel Fitzmaurice face in the crowd,  Suman Roychoudhury

The years I wasted lost in hurt and doubt! I trusted none, to none I gave my all, Dwelled upon myself, with flesh and stout I drugged my demons and ignored Your call. My demons drugged, I lived the life of one Faithless in all I did and said, Betrayed my love, and then, when love was gone, Abandoned hope and fell in with the dead. You came to me out of the abyss, I needed help but feared that there was none, In the dark night of the sense I felt Your kiss And knew at last that I had found the One On Whom I count, in Whom I live anew: When I learned to trust myself, I trusted You. Gabriel Fitzmaurice Stairway to heaven,  romeisso

Much comes out of the body and, by and large, you’ll be more comfortable if you’re in charge, deciding what and when the best you can, and so will others be. There was a man who never said a thing he didn’t mean. To him all mindless sounds were obscene, and empty words especially profane, signifying a failure in the brain. He’d never said a word he had to regret. The fact is, he was less likely to let a rash or indeliberate word pass than feel impromptu solid, liquid, or gas part from his darkness in public. Even sweat. He was profoundly embarrassed by anything wet coming unbidden out of the body. Hence, he saw tears as a form of incontinence. He nearly forgave the flesh its watery art; worse were unmeasured words, the brain’s fart. He was a model of calm and eloquence, a man of obvious breeding and good sense, well known far beyond the neighborhood. His children all left home as soon as they could. Miller Williams # 452 / Bjorn Richter

Where do they go, those cruel, those easy words we wield in haste and toss away like knives? Do they fly back to peck us, fat birds fed on our long regretting all out lives? Do they bloom out in waves that shear the sky, ever-unfolding fan of living blade, so that no gift of balm can rocket by, outdistancing to heal the hurt once made? Or do they burrow inward through the soul, borrowing justice from the lack of light, and, breeding reasons in that self-sealed hole, contrive to sleep, content that right makes right. Where do they go, the casual words we say by nothing made, that nothing takes away. Rhina P. Espaillat backyard wildlife,  Ricky Floyd

Far on the outer beach the strange hulk stands, A belly-laugh at architectural grace— It reaches, juts and sprawls, grabs chunks of space, It rises like a chorus of demands. It’s pieced of driftwood, every beam and board; The second floor looms larger than the first; Its upward thrust seems doomed to be reversed By all the laws of physics and discord. Yet up it stays, like a fool’s philosophy. Created of scraps the storm-tide put at hand It now shouts rude defiance to the sea While struggling to keep its feet on shifting sand. That there’s some power that keeps it none can doubt, Some logic moving like love—from inside out. Paul Smyth  Titanic,  Philippe

Lifting her arms to soap her hair Her pretty breasts respond – and there The movement of that buoyant pair Is like a spell to make me swear Twenty odd years have turned to air; Now she’s the girl I didn’t dare Approach, ask out, much less declare My love to, mired in young despair. Childbearing, rows, domestic care – All the prosaic wear and tear That constitute the life we share – Slip from her beautiful and bare Bright body as, made half aware Of my quick, surreptitious stare, She wrings the water from her hair And turning smiles to see me there. Dick Davis Low key,  Jonas Tana

Come, chosen ones, admire the pigeon: Urban and secular, he perches On houses of religion— Mosques and synagogues and churches. He mounts the mane of Mark the Lion But coos no Latin to the lambs; Incognizant of Zion, He occupies its hexagrams. Pillared in aniconic space, He rules his roost and cannot care Which way the faithful face Or what name hastens them to prayer. Mecca, Jerusalem and Rome— So much gibberish to a brain Deprived of words for “home,” “Hereafter,” “sacred” and “profane.” Whichever God we summon as judge, The pigeon can take no offense And never bears a grudge. Come, let us envy his innocence. Aaron Poochigian Redmer Hoekstra

While flowerbeds have gone to seed, a book you didn’t plan to read offers the unexpected phrase that occupies your mind for days. You write with someone else’s pen of someone else’s life. And when light’s absence leans across the town, you lay another body down. David Mason The floating homes of Victoria, Detlef

You watch yourself. You watch the watcher too- A ghostly figure on the garden wall. And one of you is her, and one is you, If either one of you exists at all. How strange to be the one behind a face, To have a name and know that it is yours, To be in this particular green place, To see a snail advance, to see it pause. You sit quite still and wonder when you’ll go. It could be now. Or now. Or now. You stay. Who’s making up the plot? You’ll never know. Minute after minute swims away. Wendy Cope Ektar 63, King

A gray financier in a thin black auto Drove over a snake on a country road; Birds flew up in the dust that gathered, Oak leaves trembled throughout the wood. Decisive indeed the defeat of Evil; And inconclusive the triumph of Good. William Jay Smith Redmer Hoekstra

I cannot think unless I have been thought, Nor can I speak unless I have been spoken. I cannot teach except as I am taught, Or break the bread except as I am broken. O Mind behind the mind through which I seek, O Light within the light by which I see, O Word beneath the words with which I speak, O founding, unfound Wisdom, finding me, O sounding Song whose depth is sounding me, O Memory of time, reminding me, My Ground of Being, always grounding me, My Maker’s Bounding Line, defining me, Come, hidden Wisdom, come with all you bring, Come to me now, disguised as everything. Malcom Guite Franz Mark, Birds, 1914

A good man muttered to himself as he walked on a hill; And Echo followed after him, as Echo always will. Good man:  I bend my neck to be Thy sacrifice;  My final throe will win me Paradise.   Echo:   One final throw will win, me pair o’ dice!  Good man:   I seek out God behind his shining gate,  Where cherubim and angels scintillate.  Echo:   Where cherubim and angels sin till late. Good man:   Flesh, fall away! I climb the spirit’s heights! How futile now, these orgiastic nights! Echo:   How few till now, these orgiastic nights! Good man:   Beyond the grave, eternal life begins. But what is life? Forgive me, Lord, my sins! Echo:  But what is life for? Give me, Lord, my sins! Willard Espy Dimitris Makrygiannakis

Rosemary, marjoram, cinnamon, basil— Oh, what delightful words to say! Oh, what sensations, verbal and nasal! Savory, juniper, anise, bay! Who was the poet, who was the paragon— He who discovered these names sublime? Caraway, cardamon, chervil, tarragon, Lovage and borage, nutmeg, thyme! Oh, how delicious the delicate savoring, Tongue-tip-tasted on outspread palm Or merely read in the chapter on flavoring! Sesame, saffron, fennel, balm! Morris Bishop Starling Murmuration,  - RSPB Minsmere,  Airwolfhound

His aspirations won’t exceed The limits that are set. Adaptable, he’ll never need What he’s not apt to get. There is no multi-colored bird Would ever catch his eye, Unless it answered to his word. He does not wish to fly, Nor would he chase a mermaid down Beneath the silken wave. He’s walk with purpose through the town With Harry, Tom, and Dave, And talk about the usual things, And go about his day. Should hope arrive on little wings, He’d brush the pest away. Alfred Nicol The legendary corn vendor,  un2112

The scene within the paperweight is calm, A small white house, a laughing man and wife, Deep snow. I turn it over in my palm And watch it snowing in another life, Another world, and from this scene learn what
 It is to stand apart: she serves him tea
 Once and forever, dressed from head to foot
 As she is always dressed. In this toy, history Sifts down through the glass like snow, and we 
Wonder if her single deed tells much 
Or little of the way she loves, and whether he
 Sees shadows in the sky. Beyond our touch, Beyond our lives, they laugh, and drink their tea.
 We look at them just as the winter night
 With its vast empty spaces bends to see
 Our isolated little world of light, Covered with snow, and snow in clouds above it, 
And drifts and swirls too deep to understand. 
Still, I must try to think a little of it,
 With so much winter in my head and hand.
 Gjertrud Schnackenberg schön gefroren,  tinka1364

Toe after toe, a snowing flesh, a gold of lemon, root and rind, she sifts in sunlight down the stairs with nothing on. Nor on her mind. We spy beneath the banister a constant thresh of thigh on thigh; her lips imprint the swinging air that parts to let her parts go by.   One-woman waterfall, she wears her slow descent like a long cape and pausing on the final stair, collects her motions into shape. X.J. Kennedy Nude Descending a Staircase, Marcel Duchamp

They never see themselves, the great blue spaces, And, clear and pure in the eternal cold, The snowy mountains never see their glory, The flower cannot watch itself unfold. So it is sweet to know that if you wander Through woods, or if you climb a craggy rise, Nature delights, discovering her beauties With Your insatiable eyes. Stepan Shchipachev Nuclear Sunrise,  Fabian F_

How far is it to you by foot? Ten thousand stones, Two million grains of dust and soot, All my bruised bones. How far is it to you by sea? Twelve hills and hollows Of water, each one risking me, Gulped in salt swallows. How far is it to you by rail? A myriad meadows Sweeping the window in a gale Of golden shadows. How far is it to you by air? Ten thousand thunders, Countless ice crystals set aflare With rainbow wonders. How far is it to you by light? Two parted petals Of eyelids flowering with sight Where sunshine settles. How far is it to you by love? I have no notion. For so to seek and find you prove One selfsame motion. Vassar Miller Semmering's Little Brother,  The Hobbit Hole

Blue porcelain, bronze Buddha, Buddha of Stone Beaming and benignant as the moon— Light in the gallery is late afternoon And momentarily I am alone. Peace within peace, the peace of Buddha’s smile, The peace of sculptors in some sheltered place Smoothing the last flaw from the smiling face, And here for me, peace for a little while. Yet even while the craftsman curved these lips, At that same moment of impervious peace, Other men, somewhere, crumpled to their knees, Broken and bloody underneath the whips. Robert Francis Autumn Buddha 2,  Toby Marshall

15 Whate’er thou doest, never grieve thy brother, Nor kindle fumes of wrath his peace to smother;     Dost thou desire to taste eternal bliss, Vex thine own heart, but never vex another! 38 With outward seeming we can cheat mankind, But to God’s will we can but be resigned;     The deepest wiles my cunning e’er devised, To shirk divine decrees no way could find. 41 Sobriety doth dry up all delight, And drunkenness doth drown my sense outright;     There is a middle state, it is my life, Not altogether drunk, nor sober quite. 49 In synagogue and cloister, mosque and school, Hell’s terrors and heaven’s lures men’s bosoms rule,     But they who master Allah’s mysteries, Sow not this empty chaff their hearts to fool. 60 From mosque an outcast, and to church a foe, Allah! of what clay didst thou form me so?    Like skeptic monk, or ugly courtesan, No hopes have I above, no joys below. 63 Hearts with the light of...

I feel less lonely when I watch TV: The heartbreak and the healing both go quicker, And Marketing’s best minds keep courting me As though my name were capping a marquee— It might as well, since I control the clicker. I feel less blue, too, watching: though TV Can’t do much more than mute a tragedy (The ten o’clock news scrolls its frantic ticker), It compensates with ample comedy— Reruns alone could last an eternity! That comfort bathes me in its bluish flicker. I feel less lonely when I watch TV, Though lately not as often. When I see My favorite sitcom couples snipe and bicker— They used to smile, to beam, accepting me Into their homes; now they seem less carefree, And the canned laughter sounds like one long snicker. I get so lonely when I watch TV, Where everyone plays a part apart from me. Stephen Kampa Television Interference,  Steve Taylor

The buzzard never says it is to blame.  The panther wouldn’t know what scruples mean.  When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.  If snakes had hands, they’d claim their hands were clean.  A jackal doesn’t understand remorse.  Lions and lice don’t waver in their course.  Why should they, when they know they’re right? Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,  in every other way they’re light.  On this third planet of the sun  among the signs of bestiality  a clear conscience is Number One. Wislawa Szymborska  Translated by Stanislaw Baraczak and Clare Cavanagh. l'atlante di Selene,  Andreas Aldebaran

Early blossoms – could a single Hour preserve them just as now! But the warmer west will scatter Petals showering from the bough. How enjoy these leaves, that lately I was grateful to for shade? Soon the wind and snow are rolling What the late Novembers fade. Fruit – you’d reach a hand and have it? Better have it then with speed. These you see about to ripen, Those already gone to seed. Half a rainy day, and there’s your Pleasant valley not the same, None could swim that very river Twice, so quick the changes came. You yourself! What all around you Strong as stonework used to lie – Castles, battlements – you see them With an ever-changing eye. Now the lips are dim and withered Once the kisses set aglow; Lame the leg, that on the mountain Left the mountain goat below. Or that hand, that knew such loving Ways, outstretching in caress, – Cunningly adjusted structure­ – Now can function less and less. All are gone; this substitution Has your name and nothing...