I pile a face scratching at the wind swept window

Scanning through the frost of four broken panes,

At the black mountain, famous here,

Eyeing it with shame and furious hair.

With the jealousy the sea shag has fior the sea,

The younger brother to a mercenary;

A cormorant chained,

Dipping to eels on the junk man's trade;

A ghost riding the hills of the snow-lord frayed,

A preacher subject to the rains,

Kill unbroken to the glaze,

Commoner gazing at the sun afraid.

 

  Tired lines sear my tired sky face

Ane setting my eyes back laughing

Out of my body, out of my hair.

A great black matt of thorny hand,

Ready to rush over the swollen image

In case too much enquiring

Should cut a circuit of pain.

 

  What ruse does a painter have

Piling darkness onto darkness

While his shaggy face appears burning

On the dark empty canvas,

Impetuous self-portrait

Flashed there for one incest burning moment

As a dream pearled too early to regain?