It's hard to say just what one feels Following sunlight that exits the field. What one feels. . . is what. . . one says, So notes propose composed in haze. It is too much-- my page is damp: Wrappers splayed at a tarnished curb. There's no order to tonight's white stars Or to dawn's harassing tassels come up so far. A rhyme is a rhyme, is just what comes Going round and around as one does.