Something black somewhere in the vistas of his heart.

Tulips from Tates teazed Henry in the mood

to be a tulip and desire no more

but water, but light, but air.

Yet his nerves rattled blackly, unsubdued,

& suffocation called, dream-whiskey’d pour

sirening. Rosy there

too fly my Phil & Ellen roses, pal.

Flesh-coloured men & women come & punt

under my windows. I rave

or grunt against it, from a flowerless land.

For timeless hours wind most, or not at all. I wind

my clock before I shave.

Soon it will fall dark. Soon you’ll see stars

you fevered after, child, man, & did nothing,—

compass live to the pencil-torch!

As still as his cadaver, Henry mars

this surface of an earth or other, feet south

eyes bleared west, waking to march.