Issue 25, Winter-Spring 1961
How many statesmen let you move their lips
like creaking shutters while they stood there dazed?
What statues did you dedicate? What ships
were launched on winds a little money raised?
Old whisperer, get you gone, give our ears ease...
here, take your gibber with you. You’ve
graven your tombstone in officialese.
Get under it. Go moan at one remove.
Incomplete spirit in a house laid waste,
with thinning hands you tweeze threads from your sheet.
Little to hate is left of you. The priest
forgives you, gives you flesh and blood to eat.