Heart, be clean. Fists, be open, numb.
Most lovely

Lovely, let me be wrong in almost every
Thing. That the page is waste, all that rag

Content. That even despairing relentlessly cannot

Spare you what you fear the most.
Gamine, you are growing

Old now; it’s your time. If you wait here
For the noises of this night,

They will sound out as the rustling of autumn,
Spiky, dried of unctuous

Airs, blazing like a chestnut horse on fire in
The padlocked barn;
It is time it will be time.