The little light fades the immense and diaphanous
shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.
Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols,
silently rising, freshly exuding,
Scooting obliquely high and low."
Good for the soul, but hard to get back onto another, by now more crowded, F train. Wouldn't it be better just to skip the job for the day, and do some Whitmanesque loafing?
