Раздаточный материал:
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
Перед вами отрывок из стихотворения 1962 года. Чьё это стихотворение?