Graft tobacco leaves to the needles of the dying
Conifers; carve loaves of stone which dote on neutral
Moments; scatter punchings and perforated tape
High on the wind
And wind silver ivy 'round bundles of appropriated pens.
A mote, growing slowly, like smoke
Has burst and blown through ribbed pipes to the light
And lies on the eye as commonly and
Brutally as unclean bricks.
Your candor caught you, coughed in loops
And the red cothurni made of ego-aspic totters
Onto potsherds of the whisket-barrel, and the musket grains
Fall onto your sleeve, brushed back like drool and dirt.
How dearly bought
each mourner is, who watches and will not squat
upon the rich bale of earth above his body and keen.
How dear the riches of this world were
To him.
