Igner in the eddas
Secrecy? What is wrong with writers
but their own contempt for writers?
And the like, their ilk,
illness embodied. Why, bored land
of readers dead to the last of you,
would we all of us be wholesome
divided by dollars the lot
of our children, of whom we aren’t allowed,
like young Spartiates, harshly taken
yet selfsame—might you understand me
as if I am a crippled bridge over your pedestrian?
What poor sublimity that ever overtook
the path of a footbridge meant for feet,
rather than bands of the fleet of slick foot
in sap overwrought?