No book no masters no memory: a mob runs riot in the blood & everywhere loud singing. The sanctuaries are choirs undone & with the church doors open the red flood, that congregation, alway cometh surging. The Painter lies who pensills death's Face grim/With White bare butter Teeth, bare staring bones,/With empty eyeholes Curious the sight of trunks and limbs so disheveled, and so richly piled. & with purple vestments laid down. "Man palms his ears and moans" but moans not loud and hears not at all. Knows he better. Better to not speak the word. Word of figure and ground. With neither possession nor passion. Say what will be said. That which was missaid. "Say a body. Where none."