Out of the whirling womb of time come millions of men and their feet crowd the earth and they cut one another's throats for room to stand and among them all are not two thumbs alike.

Presents are delivered from the sky,in every package a prize, a chance,to choke, to suffocate, to forget,yes to forget every last word ever spoken ofman higher in the scale than animal creation,the gorilla and the tiger being mere beastswhile man has shrines, altars, lights,books awarding him personal immortality,books not yet banned nor burned.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg. And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years,and passengers ask the conductor- What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

The wind bit hard at Valley Forge one Christmas. Soldiers tied rags on their feet. Red footprints wrote on the snow . . .