Ah,
Christ,
I love you rings to the wild
And I must think a little of the past:
When I was ten I told a stinking
That got a black boy whipped; but now at
The going years, caught in an accurate glow,
Reverse like balls englished upon green baize-Let them return, let the round trumpets
The ancient crackle of the Christ's deep gaze.
Deafened and blind, with senses yet unfound,
Am I, untutored to the
Of knowledge, knowing a nightmare has no sound;
Therefore with idle hands and head I
In late December before the fire's
Punished by crimes of which I would be quit.
