Issue 18, Spring 1958
Murdered me; why I have no thoughts at all.
Run your hands along my temples where something
Beats like a sea with no land, or a cry
Timbreless, unhouselled of any throat.
For dry, dry that full April tongue will call
And only the treacherous, magian spring
Striding through the ferns with potent thigh
Will hear, subtle with ear of ram and stoat.
What did you expect to find in this head?
Some center, some knowledgable grace,
The hierachy of custom’s sweetness?
These are sick and, murdering, have murdered me.
When you turn, sun-veiled, sun-given, to my face,
I know nothing of you except that nothingness
I dote on. From our chaining flesh we are free,
With all names put by, all duties dead.