January 1939

Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires，

　　Shall the blind horse sing sweeter？

　　Convenient bird and beast lie lodged¹ to suffer

　　The supper and knives of a mood.

　　In the sniffed² and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year

　　That clouts³ the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms，

　　An enamoured man alone by the twigs⁴ of his eyes， two fires，

　　Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food，

　　Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair

　　In a wind that plucked a goose，

　　Nor ever， as the wild tongue breaks its tombs，

　　Rounds to look at the red， wagged root.

　　Because there stands， one story out of the bum⁵ city，

　　That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed⁶ sea

　　Secretly in statuary，

　　Shall I， struck on the hot and rocking street，

　　Not spin to stare at an old year

　　Toppling and burning in the muddle⁷ of towers and galleries

　　Like the mauled pictures of boys？

　　The salt person and blasted place

　　I furnish with the meat of a fable⁸.

　　If the dead starve， their stomachs turn to tumble

　　An upright man in the antipodes

　　Or spray-based and rock-chested sea：

　　Over the past table I repeat this present grace.