The Wake

I have a still snivelling mirror From the silk-cotton tree But can that take the stabbing cowries From my heavy,swollen foot? I am in the dark the naked she-goat Panting over flying stones. I must eat washings of my half-thread Sudden cut by Atropos; I must return to almost forsaken ploughs A balding soot by my wake Amidst flying tongues of dagger and malice; Poor manacle must watch armour-less As malignant rats dart in mottled errands, Breaking the last walls-the fields,and then I must rove naked in the inky sky And then sit under the cypress, Chewing my fingers-ever. How sudden the icy embrace O that I had caught with you the ambulance crest.