It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

it is prim, moonly slight, in this mauled down, styleless and bubbling-black, the coddled treats eye lent and the humped, courtesan rabbi swab limping in visible down to this lobe act, slow, black, crow be lack, fish-in-boat-bob-in-sea. the houses are blinders’ moles (though moles sea fan to night in these mounting, velveted ingles) orbit lined as cap tan cat therein the muff-led mid-dell by the plum pan, the tao ink lock, this chops in mornay, the well fair-whore in widows’ wee. and all the peep-hole of the lull dance dumb floundered town arse-leaking now.