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Poem	In slack times visit I the violent dead and pick their awful brains. Most seem to feel nothing is secret more to my disdain I find, when we who fled cherish the knowings of both worlds, conceal more, beat on the floor, where Bhain is stagnant, dear of Henry's friends, yellow with cancer, paper-thin, & bent even in the hospital bed racked with high hope, on whom death lay hands in weeks, or Yeats in the London spring half-spent, only the grand gift in his head going for him, a seated ruin of a man courteous to a junior, like one of the boarders, or Dylan, with more to say now there's no hurry, and we're all a clan. You'd think off here one would be free from orders. I didn't hear a single word. I obeyed.
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