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Poem	The weather was fine. They took away his teeth, white & helpful; bothered his backhand; halved his green hair. They blew out his loves, his interests. 'Underneath,' (they called in iron voices) 'understand, is nothing. So there.' The weather was very fine. They lifted off his covers till he showed, and cringed & pled to see himself less. They instaleld mirrors till he flowed. 'Enough' (murmmered they) 'if you will watch Us instead, yet you may saved be. Yes.' The weather fleured. They weakened all his eyes, and burning thumbs into his ears, and shook his hand like a notch. They flung long silent speeches. (Off the hook!) They sandpapered his plumpest hope. (So capsize.) They took away his crotch.
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