The cemetery gates are walking to me open-armed
Like loving uncles freed from wars
My dancing is not what it was the women say
And naked he is not one charcoal line now
No longer a dash on a page:
I throw you my books of glass and my stone books
You gawping infants let one impale your brains
And another crush your still unbeating hearts
Yes I also was born in the poor ward
The unkind marked me out but the great youths
Stood around me like a rampart of stakes
And in my camera bony mothers posed on legs
Of storks jutting their pudenda luscious and spare:
The fields of error bring forth heads of red blood
As if a thousand birds were executed at a stroke:
In that estate there is a road of pale brick
And a sign commanding nothing the rains had
Rinsed out every fear and all advice
I pity the lost ones of forever who stand near
Thinking they will paint new orders better orders
Desperate to paint orders on the eaten boards

8th February