I only got as far as the sentence:
“it's like Kavanagh on the American misfortune
in a prose resembling waves”
in my brother's PHD on Secret Chord H
before the dog woke me with
his barking. He'd been barking
for hours, all through the night,
as if at the voices I can still hear in my sleep.
In my sleep I can also, evidently, read:
dream up whole, arcane PHD's
that work in the world of words.
If only they could be smuggled
out of the unconscious, I'd be rich
and famous, neither of which motivate me,
as much as the work itself.
I'd do well to try and recall the previous
sentence in Dr. Robert's PHD,
but as much as I try I can't.