“Oh, we have burnt our souls with lust
Till they are whiter than the dust ...
Now are they white as purity?”
“You blind mine eyes ... I cannot see.”
“I am so tired—I fain would creep
To hide within your heart and weep.”
“My heart is dust ... no tears to shed.”
“But carrion lives—it lives”—I said.
TREATS
I
FUNERALS
BENEATH umbrellas I can see
Pink faces sheened with stupidity,
With whiskers spirting from them, (days
Of boredom, black and sentient rays
From other personalities.)
And, mourners too, white-bearded seas
Walk slowly by them as they come,
Sing hymns to the wind’s harmonium.