To Robert Penn
You hold your eager
Too high in the air, you
As if the sleepy
Had never fallen to
From the sublimest
Of many a vehement house.
Your head so turned turns
Into the vagrant West;
Fixing an iron
In an Ozymandias*
And because your clamorous
Beats an impermanent
You think the dead
Westward and fabulous:
The dead are those whose
Were doors to a narrow house.
