To Denis
Again the native hour lets down the
Uncombed and black, but gray the bobbing beard;
Ten years ago His eyes, fierce shuttlecocks,
Pierced the close net of what I failed:
I
The belly-cold, the grave-clout, that
Me dithering in the drift of cordial seas;
Ten years are time enough to be
By mummy Christ, head crammed between his knees.
Suppose I take an arrogant bomber,
By stroke, up to the frazzled sun to
Sun-ghostlings whisper:
Yes, the capital yoke-Remove it and there's not a ghost to
This crucial day, whose decapitate
Languidly winds into the inner ear.
