Dream Song 33: An apple arcd toward Kleitos; whose great King

 An apple arc'd toward Kleitos; whose great King
wroth & of wine did study where his sword,
sneaked away, might be .
 .
 .

with swollen lids staggered up and clung
dim to the cloth of gold.
 An un-Greek word
blister, to him guard,

and the trumpeter would not sound, fisted.
 Ha,
they hustle Clitus out; by another door,
loaded, crowds he back in
who now must, chopped, fall to the spear-ax ah
grabbed from an extra by the boy-god, sore
for weapons.
 For the sin:

little it is gross Henry has to say.

The King heaved.
 Pluckt out, the ax-end would
he jab in his sole throat.

As if an end.
 A baby, the guard may
squire him to his apartments.
 Weeping & blood
wound round his one friend.

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