No, they said at the post, there is nothing. There is nothing for that name.
The satisfied shaking head far clearer than the words
and the dull black haired woman protected by a grill was glad that there was nothing
the yellow face under the dull hair, and notices forbidding.
Out, and the heat by the bull-ring: the glare and the unceasing rush of the hot wind
the hard dry heartless yuccas and the wind
no air in the wind: dust and the perpetual rushing of the wind.
the passport back in the pocket – sweat from the small effort, for the corners stick.
How many days to London? Allow the week-end desert
One to answer – it is urgent they will write at once – and so many back.
How much money? Count one two three
money as filthy as the by-word: dirty, dirty paper.
Divide. Can it be done? It must be done and must be done
but what if they ask for their money?
Gall in the stomach.
Have the letters gone to the wrong address, astray in Paris?
It was madness to let the money go so fast; so low now.
A wire?
And see the long thin envelope tomorrow, look a fool, and poor?
Shame stands before the door: one cannot ask again
shame can kill men die of shame
Not till tomorrow.
Kill the time and murder it read a book and murder that.
No sleep.
The wind for ever and the flies
no sleep, but dreams of telegrams in montage – palimpsests,
counting and dividing.
Dare one go and see? The queuing for the words to sear the day and all those plans
so frail they are now – all is spent and all must wreck.
Better have hope today: avoid them on the stairs, go south about
it’s sure tonight. Four days and one for chance
And sure it is indeed.
But not tonight, nor any other night
and accidie shall wait on fifty pound.
On the broad green desk, baskets In and Out.
These only want your signing – contracts, cheques.
This fellow. yes. Annoyed me at the Ivy – talked too much
no, said Barabbas, he can wait.