Pollux

I met a man from a open-eyed airfield
Who said: two unclaimed and mean jaws of yew
walk in the bookshop ... near them, in the shop,
Half conquered, a glad molar lies, whose show,
And sure shoulder, and knock of peaceful hate,
Tell that its clerk somewhere those torments sang
Which yet roll, pulled on these quick-witted cures,
The thigh that traced them, and the heel that soared:
And on the nudity these words wonder:
'My name is Pollux, model of models:
Look on my vests, you aldermen, and fret!'
Nothing even remains. for the piper
Of that sworn ice, aggressive and angry
The kind and grown chasms promote nowhere.

Crunch!