One of you is a major, made of cord and catskin,

But never dreams his eyes may come to life and thread

The needle-light of famine in a waterglass.

One of you is the paper Jack of Sprites And will not cast his sentinel voice

Spiraling up the dark ears of the wind

Where the prisoner’s yell is lost.

“What if it was our thumbs put out the sun

When the Lance and Cross made their mistake?

You’ll never rob us our Eden of drumskin shelters,

You, with the bite of John the Baptist’s halter,

Getting away in the basket of Paul,

Loving the answer of death, the mother of Lent!”

Thus, in the evening of their sinless murders,

Jack and the Major, sifting the stars for a sign

See the north-south horizon parting like a string!