There is still something I'd like to explain
Of the

here is still something I'd like to explain,
yet can't be sure I'm ready yet.
Beside, we've done pretty well with the non-sequiturs,
and they by us, don't you think? Next time
I recognise one I'll call you, but will you hear me?
Will I suddenly find myself alone in some glade or dell
(it scarcely matters which) from which I'll have a time
extricating myself? Let's not waste time worrying
about needless necessities, though. I've packed a hamper
of dog food, there should be a star tonight
if we're lucky, which as you know we seldom are,
and yet the violence of the race still pursues
us benevolently. What's that, a shirt
you've got there? All is ready, I think, for this major tryst
that was going to be the last one, yet I see a whole lot of little
woolly ones marching straight over the hill to where the horizon
would be if we could ever catch it, make it spit out its name.
Oh it can be horrible out there sometimes.

hen there's the obscure holiday
we hadn't counted on. I was already dressed for work
trying to fasten my celluloid collar to my unforgiving,
slightly tattered shirt, and lo, a letter in pink ink
is deposited by a wavelet at my very door. Needs
must I read it. Well, we missed the first bus,
but another's soon arriving, there will probably be more
empty seats, though we'll arrive just as twilight is hinting
at encroaching at some point in the not too distant future.
At least the bills are paid. Yes! scream all those aboard.
I know I've left something behind —my sense of displacement
perhaps. Yet no mood will be shattered if we are diplomatic, for once.
The inheritors of those woods and groves won't oppress us,
and there'll be a chance for sleep and some grub. You'll see.

--- John Ashbery

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