the more stray memories

on nothing much

who stole my yellow bicycle

four years dead

like many idlers

this street

quarter of anywhere

cuffs turn backwards

Whistler etchings

 

boiling up in vast

ignorant, impudent

the most remarkable, inexplicable

 

another father

any son

dead when he was eight days old

unrelenting hatred

had ten children

a man of unreliable temper

only the portraits

linger in dullness and rancor

invents the most cowardly insults

other onions

being a survivor myself

pondered, uttered, growled

 

dullness and rancor

brooding presence

domineering and coarse

sigh, complain, do nothing

in vile humor

had blighted

their reproaches

of grievance

reading in his room