My friends are borne to one another
By their lack of something to say;
The weight of inward thought is lifted
And they float to each other
Like paper darts: they offer the salt of themselves
Arab-like in hotels,
Humbler than they would have you believe.
Humanity is the smallest coin for tipping.
Allen relates a host of grandiose lies . . .
These are the wafers of our religion.

Barnes is the butt of malice,
An unmysterious drinking of the blood . . .
And the seas may boil outside. No doubt they do.
But we are in a silence of some sort,
Exchanging shells, which placed against the ear,
Occasionally echo the throbbing of a heart.