THE LONG HOME
Stifling about his blood, time's helm to build him proof.
Thump the oak, and preside!
An
ingrown terrible smile unflowers, a sigh
Blurs, the axle turns, unmanned.
Habited now forever with his weight
Well housed, he rolls in the twilight
Unrecognizable against the world's rim, and
A bird whistles nearby.
Whisked off, a voice, fainter, faint, a guise,
A gleam, pin of a, a. Nothing.
-One look round last, like rats, before we leave.
A famous house. Now the men arrive:
Horror, they swing their cold bright mallets, they're breaking
Him up before my eyes!
Wicked vistas! The wolves mourn for our crime
Out past the grey wall. On to our home,
Whereby the barley may seed and resume.
Mutter of thrust stones palls this room,
The crash of mallets. He is going where I come,
Barefoot soul fringed with rime.
547
