A man made out of the burnt worth of matches
leans back on the snow. He draws a white sheet like
a face that has been beaten
From the snow and tents it over his burnt lower body

Like a bandage of snow
Like a white pair of pants
With a hole torn in it
And the char of smashed-up ashtray blackness showing

Through the hole.
the man made out of ash-tray wealth
is suspended from a white sky
That meets the earth throughout the picture.

He is suspended by
Bleak strings
Of ash-tray stuff
That guide him like a puppet

Smearing the fire-stuff
Pulling the fire-stuff
useless
residue, of Mind and Industry

actoss the
snow of Clouds
Clouds of snow