From the "tabular account of the specimens found in" the Artesian Well at the Passaic Rolling Mill, Paterson," in the poem Paterson:
400 feet. . . Red sandstone, shaly
I like many parts of Paterson and tonight discovered "the grey secrecy of time." It makes me think of what I passed in Coleridge last night, Biographia Literaria, ch. VII:
The act of consciousness is indeed identical with time considered in its essence. (I mean time per se [it itself], as contradistinguished from our notion of time; for this is always blended with the idea of space, which as the contrary of time, is therefore its measure.) [that boldface should be rom.]
I like thinking about time, possibly dating to a year I worked on an encyclopedia on the subject. This whole fact of calendars and when it's the right time to set sail, or fish, or what not--kairos and fashionably late and clock-time. (I imagine William Vollman would have something interesting to say on the subject of clock-time.)
However which way, shaly is ponytail-like, and, thus, seemingly out of place in a scientific description.