Thus it is.
There is much loneliness
and the cigarette coupons will not save us.
I have studied your face across the draughtsboard.
It is freckled and young.
Death and summer have such fine breasts.
Tanned, they return from the sea.
The colour of sand, their blouses the colour of waves,
they walk in the large screen of my window.
Bacon, whose Pope screams in the regalia
of chairs and glass, dwarf of all the ages,
an hour-glass of ancient Latin,
you have fixed us where we are, cacti able to talk,
twitched by unintelligible tornadoes,
snakes of collapsing sand.
They trail home from the seaside in their loose blouses.
The idiot bounces his ball as they pass.
He tests his senile smile.