Plainsong.

I have a fear of staves and hoods, Of bayonets & shrouds; A phobia of sawn-out woods, Of emptiness & crowds. Anxiously I look at clocks & itch at calendars; I cannot watch at doors & locks Nor see the purple lost in lavenders. I find hygrometers in fish Whose blood is chilled in lakes; & sunk therein, the deepest wish To read all waters' wakes. I take fresh interest in a wall The joints of which are mossed Or tracing paths where spiders crawl Beneath the simple lines their threads have crossed. These signs are raked in peaks & dumped in Sillion dust. Clawing through Dry stalks the odor and color of pumpkin, Autumn begs me to renew The past, forego what rushes stand Yet to be cut on this globe, & pass down rushlights hand to hand To die an emblematic pantophobe.