My World Is Pyramid

I

　　Half of the fellow father as he doubles

　　His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk，

　　Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles¹

　　To-morrow's diver in her horny milk，

　　Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone

　　Bolt for the salt unborn.

　　The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled

　　Corrosive² spring out of the iceberg's crop，

　　The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled³

　　The swing of milk was tufted in the pap，

　　For half of love was planted in the lost，

　　And the unplanted ghost.

　　The broken halves are fellowed in a cripple，

　　The crutch⁴ that marrow⁵ taps upon their sleep，

　　Limp in the street of sea， among the rabble⁶

　　Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep，

　　And stake the sleepers⁸ in the savage⁹ grave

　　That the vampire¹⁰ laugh.

　　The patchwork¹¹ halves were cloven as they scudded¹²

　　The wild pigs' wood， and slime upon the trees，

　　Sucking the dark， kissed on the cyanide，

　　And loosed the braiding adders⁷ from their hairs，

　　Rotating halves are horning as they drill

　　The arterial angel.

　　What colour is glory？ death's feather？ tremble

　　The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air，

　　And prick¹³ the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.

　　The ghost is dumb that stammered¹⁴ in the straw，

　　The ghost that hatched his havoc¹⁵ as he flew

　　Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.

　　II

　　My world is pyramid. The padded mummer

　　Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt

　　Incising summer.

　　My Egypt's armour¹⁶ buckling¹⁷ in its sheet，

　　I scrape through resin¹⁸ to a starry¹⁹ bone

　　And a blood parhelion.

　　My world is cypress²⁰， and an English valley.

　　I piece my flesh that rattled²¹ on the yards

　　Red in an Austrian volley.

　　I hear， through dead men's drums， the riddled²² lads，

　　Screwing their bowels²³ from a hill of bones，

　　Cry Eloi to the guns.

　　My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.

　　The Arctic scut， and basin of the South，

　　Drip on my dead house garden.

　　Who seek me landward， marking in my mouth

　　The straws of Asia， lose me as I turn

　　Through the Atlantic corn.

　　The fellow halves that， cloven as they swivel

　　On casting tides， are tangled²⁴ in the shells，

　　Bearding the unborn devil，

　　Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.

　　The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide²⁵

　　Binding²⁶ my angel's hood²⁷.

　　Who blows death's feather？ What glory is colour？

　　I blow the stammel feather in the vein²⁸.

　　The loin is glory in a working pallor.

　　My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn，

　　The secret child， I sift²⁹ about the sea

　　Dry in the half-tracked thigh³⁰.