The Final Shore

A Cut-Up Poem

And each man flowed over London the hours,

Its bloom planted last year, of winter.

There I saw you sprout, “Oh keep thee!”

“Has it begun?”

(Hurry up please it’s time.)

A crowd fixed its eyes to the saint and stopped,

That friend infrequent, exhaling on the final shore,

“You! Hypocrite King!”

Unreal city, under his nails a dead sound undoes so many,

Flowing sighs, short under the bridge, so many, in me, crying:

“You disturbed men in the frosty dawn!”