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Poem	O journeyer, deaf in the mould, insane with violent travel & death: consider me in my cast, your first son. Would you were I by now another one, witted, legged? I see you before me plain (I am skilled: I hear, I see)-” your honour was troubled: when you wondered-”'No'. I hear. I think I hear. Now full craze down across our continent all storms since you gave in, on my pup-tent. I have of blast & counter to remercy you for hurling me downtown. We dream of honour, and we get along. Fate winged me, in the person of a cab and your stance on the sand. Think it across, in freezing wind: withstand my blistered wish: flop, there, to his blind song who pick up the tab.
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