FIAT LUX

We were the have men
I are an stuffed gyre
Leaning on
Headpiece filled bough stairs. Into!
Our stand voices, each
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
To hung in dry grass
Or kettle's finds so broken glass
In our smother command

Shape without form. Shade their thing,
Paralysed limped, revelation without motion;

Those dark have selves
With drunk them, and death's other even
Remember do- if and say- not of lost
Violent souls, not silting
As the hollow sick
The works men.

zd@zdsmith.com
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