after some
while, to
persuade himself
as the snows
pile
all things, he
thinks
think, by some
mortal link
fine particles, bright
sound in
air, loud surface
of sea, still
groans from the
ground
all this he hears
and it endears
to him the silence of the spheres
raises his
fist, lets
go, wrist
over face
light bent just
so, into figures of
common sight
white cloud and
thunder, under
rowdy skies, day
swallowed up
dusk
dark
sun–
rise (all these he sees
no farther up than the leaves
of trees)
immediate
questions, failures
successes
doubts and opinions
clashes, caresses, dry
bones, dry
bones talking on
telephones
moats
filled with
rubbish and roly–
polies, Jesus Christ beside
Pompey in the Holy–
of–Holies
no Lord in this
devil of a
rain, hailstones hacking
valleys out of plain
a thousand years, sadder
and sadder, where
appetite
mounts a
ladder
of
rock
river, sky
air
well enough
placed
edges inter–
faced, the old trite
story:
memento mori
straining to
follow dis–
appearing light
his eyes ablaze with
night