Their feet clambering over,
I uncover the fitness
Of my place. The fitness, fit,
Why'm I so slow to see it?
To be fit is to be just
Of an appropriate size:
Why, I'll fit you! Eliot
Is mad again, tired of it,
Wired from all the nonsense rhymes
And meaningless allusions.
Here's a hint: allusions are
All meaningless and because
This little world nothing is,
Each of us nothings in it.
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