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(After W.H. Auden)


The human arm is sleepless. Fevers, proves, paid children on the head of love— on the individual scorned.

But my arms break with the day entirely beautiful— ordinary matter, grave vision, knocking bell.

The head breaks, the eyes break, glaciers wake, blow tolerant,

pass tolerant into the night— the boring cry of a whisper, the fashionable knocking enough to strike fidelity.