And only in the hush no wind stirs it,
And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes,
And restlessness still shadows the lost ways.
The fingers shut on voices that pass through
Where blind farewells are taken easily.
Ah, this miasma of a rotting God!
SLEEP
Godhead’s lip hangs
When our pulses have no golden tremors,
And his whips are flicked by mice