If not a bayonet—then a tusk, a snowbank, a squall,—

On the hour, another train—to Immortality!

I came and knew one thing: it’s just another stop.

And not worth unpacking.

Upon everyone, everything—my indifferent eyes,

Come to rest—on the immemorial.

O how natural to enter third class

Through the closeness of the ladies’ rooms!

Where after warmed-over cutlets, cheeks

Are grown cold…—Can’t we go further,

My soul? I’d sooner go down a streetlamp’s drain

To escape this deadening discord:

Of end papers, diapers,

Red-hot curling irons,

Scorched hair,

Women’s hats, oil cloths,

All the eau-de-Col—ognes

Of families, the joys

Of sewing (Mere trifles!)

Is there a coffeepot?

Crackers, pillows, matrons, nannies,

The closeness of nurseries, and baths.

I don’t want to be in this box of women’s bodies

Waiting on the hour of my death!

I want this train to be drinking and singing:

Death—too, belongs in another class!

In a daze, a stupor, on a concertina, in distress, in vanity!

—These unbelievers do cling so to life!—

Prompting some pilgrim or other to say: “In the next world”…

So I interrupt to say: it must be better!

A platform.—And sleepers.—And a last shrub

In my hand.—I let loose.—It’s too late

To hang on.—Sleepers.—I’m tired

Of so many mouths.—I look to the stars.

So through a rainbow of all the vanishing

Planets—did someone at least number them?—

I look and see one thing: another end.

And not worth regretting.