O journeyer, deaf in the mould, insane

with violent travel & death: consider me

in my cast, your first son.

Would you were I by now another one,

witted, legged? I see you before me plain

(I am skilled: I hear, I see)—

your honour was troubled: when you wondered—‘No’.

I hear. I think I hear. Now full craze down

across our continent

all storms since you gave in, on my pup-tent.

I have of blast & counter to remercy you

for hurling me downtown.

We dream of honour, and we get along.

Fate winged me, in the person of a cab

and your stance on the sand.

Think it across, in freezing wind: withstand

my blistered wish: flop, there, to his blind song

who pick up the tab.