March

There's a wind blowing    Cold through the corridors,    A ghost-wind,    The flapping of defeated wings,    A hell-fantasy    From meadows damned    To eternal April    And listening, listening    To the wind    I hear    The throat-rattle of dying men,    From whose ears oozes    Foamy blood,    Throttled in a brothel.    I see brightly    In the wind vacancies    Saint Thomas Aquinas    And     Poetry blossoms    Excitingly    As the first flower of truth.