“Well—I’m not sure,” said T.S. “It’s not as though there’s a whole lot to go on, you know?”
Walt snorted. “Not a lot to go on? Have you forgotten the downtrodden state of man? Have you grown so accustomed in your lofty apartments to having servants bring you platters of food that you cannot even remember where the fruits you eat originate? This is a work about the true beginning of man, from dust to dust, under the guise of words and typeface. This is a poem—”
“It’s about plums,” William Carlos said, snatching the book away.