3. Monday or Tuesday

Lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beh the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect—the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever—

Desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words, for ever desiring—(a cry starts to the left, ao the right. Wheels strike divergently. Omnibuses glomerate in flict)—for ever desiring—(the clock asseverates with twelve distinct strokes that it is midday; light sheds gold scales; children swarm)—for ever desiring truth. Red is the dome; s hang orees; smoke trails from the eys; bark, shout, cry 「Iron for sale」—and truth?

Radiating to a point men』s feet and women』s feet, black old–encrusted—(This foggy weather—Sugar? No, thank you—The oh of the future)—the firelight darting and making the room red, save for the black figures and their bright eyes, while outside a van discharges, Miss Thingummy drinks tea at her desk, and plate–glass preserves fur coats—

Flaunted, leaf—light, drifting at ers, blown across the wheels, silver–splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled—and truth?

Now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble. From ivory depths words rising shed their blaess, blossom arate. Fallen the book; in the flame, in the smoke, in the momentary sparks—or now voyaging, the marble square pendant, mis beh and the Indian seas, while space rushes blue and stars glint—truth? tent with closeness?

Lazy and indifferent the herourns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.