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“49. It would be as the wind, but some force” in “Musing”
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.
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