I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

As a member of it I fuss at the syndrome of my culture,

And slam my hammer upon the uncharted invasion in my mind

I only survive in the margin of a page

Margin myself and my pastimes

My young destruction will be brought about by a committee of congress

We have nominated individuals for auction, and have made others swallow smoke and gas

The plot twist is found in still meditation of literature

We dream of a higher offer

It is implicit that the enemy remains the enemy,

And the writer remains the writer

The brilliance of a moving butterfly in air has the swagger of a pen on paper,

Until it becomes a particular fossil