in the middle of an argumentkindness is fatalto keeping the enemy an enemymy friends thinkI am an old hendancing without a headbetween hope and fearwhat will become of usrunning on other men’s ruin
again to howlrage and desirethat happen in secretsome touch of absenceor strange act that wouldnever have beenbut that I insist upon a fallfor in the pit I metmy brother owl
who died this morningwho brokewho was unreadyI walked up and downabove and belowthe questions answered mehow lewdly they talkand how poor a pitis the belly
tired of the war liesgrowing every dayI am given to unquietlike the seaand wonder at the deadenedglory of a moonwhich I shall not think safeout of my sight
a new homebelow the present onewants the worldthat they love leastlike nature goneto iron and moneyin the damp cellarlong things grewlittle fingers that mustbe rubbed with bloodand would not eatand cried to be a doll