—I would rather scoop a hole in the sand till my hands ran blood and sweat,
I would rather raise my friend on a pyre for the lightning to do its will,
I would sooner leave my dead to the dogs—they are happy over their kill—
Than to bring them here to this oily place to lie like a numbered sheaf!
—This servants’ quiet can have no room for my racked and horrible grief—
The windows smile with the smiles of masks, the curtains are specters walking,
And Death, the obsequious gentleman, comes rubbing black gloves and talking!
TALK
New words are my desire, new verbs to scan,
Chaste paradigms that never sold themselves,