Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the
That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,
An enamoured man alone by the twigs 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
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 bum city,
That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed
Secretly in statuary,
Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,
Not spin to stare at an old
Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and
Like the mauled pictures of boys?
The salt person and blasted placeI furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to
An upright man in the
Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:
Over the past table I repeat this present grace.
