49.

It would be as the wind, but some force

Within, disdainful and inglorious, pries

These lids shut, the living laughing

At the dead, for now. What is the slow dark

That moves in me, extinguishing the sun

And folding the blood in on itself?

I am mortgaged to the slander

Of an ill, vague and evasive mouth, pulling

The heart like refuse, and casting

The bones in vexation. No oath will endure

The breach of sand cast by a dry wind.

It does no good to brood on the wilt of time

But in the heart so random this thing.