To the hanging despair of eyes in the street, offer
Your making hands and your guts on skewers of pity.
When the pyramid sky is piled with clouds of sand which the yellow
Sun blasts above, respond to that day's doom.
With a headache. Let your ghost follow
The young men to the Pole, up Everest, to war: by love, be shot.
For the uncreating chaos descends
And claims you in marriage: though a man, you were ever a bride:
Ever beneath the supple surface of summer muscle,
The fountain evening talk cupping the summer stars,
The student who chucks back the lock from his hair in front of a silver glass,
You were only anxious that all these passions should
The engine in you, anxiety,
Was a grave lecher, a globe-trotter, one