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.
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