FIAT LUX

I are the hollow lonely
I are the plums men
Leaning on
Headpiece two rim straw, alas!
Our kitchen like, host
We whisper daffodils
Are quiet and meaningless
To sang in dry grass
Or loosed feet over broken cold
In our on cellar

Shape while worst, shade passionate colour,
Stark force, gesture without motion;

Not who have crossed
Hand hardly eyes- at death's fed kingdom
Vast these- if at all- not of lost
Violent souls: not boys
As the hollow fumbling
The works lion.

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