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When Prints Were Sans Serif The camels were confused. The deserts bold intaglio promised no relief. They marched upon the sand their hooves were sans serif. God they were tired. At night they dreamed of cool breezes wafted from offshore from some blue dark evening in Baltimore. ln Baltimore. a brunette with colorless green eyes jazzed the print of last years dress. In blue dark night a cigarette burned the edge of Conrad Aikens green typhoon. In the land of holy domes and divine fire those Japs were instamatic the brunette said snapping her violet eyelids beneath a newscast sky. To think of what America Below this poem ends with something like seven eleven unbroken minks. Under the minks coalminers are trapped in a vault gasping for air. Someone lights a match and says The wind burns its own sad footprints nice line break. He wraps a black shawl around his shoulders contemplating suicide.