My dog breathes five times faster than I do.
He will live one-fifth as long. Time is different everywhere—
the train vibrates madly as I attempt to edit these words.
How can there be one Time?
My dog protects me.
He would attack any stranger, almost too fast to see.
There is so much wretched poetry.
Is there One Wretched Poem? Existing—like Time?
Too long to read. It doesn’t rhyme.
It has no coherence, ideas, or charm.
The cop steps up, seizes Ezra Pound by the arm.