A fifty-three Plymouth painted gray and a green tree wading into the metal breaking around that tree, while the driver lolled and flopped his loose way back to babyhood, an unstrung puppet of a child who grew at last so young he died into a heap of random limbs: but it was sudden, done, just stick-man, just new-made junk, the official affairs of uniformed cars and brushy voices out of radios; so leaving it to those who clean it up, I walked narrowly away, stopping once to pick up someone’s book thrown open to the page with Melville’s name and academic poem of matter and its ancient, brutal claim.