Our wounds to time, from all the other times, br sea-times slow, the times of galaxies br fleeing, the dwarfs' dead times, br lessen so little that if here in his crude rimes br Henry them mentions, do not hold it, please, br for a putting of man down. br br Ol' Marster, being bound you do your best br versus we coons, spare now a cagey John br a whilom bits that whip: br who'll tell your fortune, when you have confessed br whose & whose woundings—against the innocent stars br & remorseless seas— br br —Are you radioactive, pal? —Pal, radioactive. br —Has you the night sweats & the day sweats, pal? br —Pal, I do. br —Did your gal leave you? —What do you think, pal? br —Is that thing on the front of your head what it seems to be, pal? br —Yes, pal.