At the ceasing of the running:
What terrified us so?
At the fall of the cities:
Why did we inhabit them?
I love the way the grasses one genus
Following the other smother the dead cars
The strict order of their progress
I love the way her neck falls into
Soft lines and the hardening of her hands
The strict order of her decline
I sung the world no longer there
Hardly a dried flower of Apollinaire
Hardly a chair
And we would fail to know it in the market