After the war, I tried at living out
my century, amid dove and white dust,
marble and illness all. Sweet-sonorous
sigh haunts my new station--ruin'd boughs too
blossom goodly reds before the winter.
The sway of the nape and the clutching-hand,
among the curve, corners and angles; shock'd
I was from the image of architects.
Hook-gash lip is wet, dripping down the skin:
I want to write something so saccharine
it makes you sick.

06/08/24