I. Or, the Anchorite Who is Dying By Degrees
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Father Gravitational’s Wig Flies Off
According to his laws, and floats according to them,
and joins a flock of seagulls, and summers with them,
slaty-backed, and winters with them, glaucous-winged,
according to his laws. Father Gravitational stares up,
sees the burlap scalp breathe, and hides in the nearest bed