The high ones die, die. They die. You look up and who’s there?

—Easy, easy, Mr Bones. I is on your side.

I smell your grief.

—I sent my grief away. I cannot care

forever. With them all align & again I died

and cried, and I have to live.

—Now there you exaggerate, Sah. We hafta die.

That is our ’pointed task. Love & die.

—Yes; that makes sense.

But what makes sense between, then? What if I

roiling & babbling & braining, brood on why and

just sat on the fence?

—I doubts you did or do. De choice is lost.

—It’s fool’s gold. But I go in for that.

The boy & the bear

looked at each other. Man all is tossed

& lost with groin-wounds by the grand bulls, cat.

William Falukner’s where?

(Frost being still around.)