cracks in the ground
like a frozen sea
cracks in the sky
like a frozen lip—
quivering
then,
and voiceless fluttering
of word upon wordless wordy word
a low wind
that
proud wheat
swept by
a bowing horde of gold
like kin on kin erupting
(because root dooms with it the house)
like a festival of distrust
where all centres
in a tangle of struggles
own throats hold
gyres of limbs
that themselves ****
themselves make
a ruffled head
that I so long combed
now a sea wild
wild
now slithering babbling streams
now lustful teasing waves
that shore then shore
meet and meet
and will rest not at all
what of—
blind infancy of impulsive beliefs
that through dunes and oases
go and go
(now nothing, now all, now none and all and all––)
a–– many sandcastle homes of childish sight
melt to doubt
— hold it—
this cleaving ground will be bound no more
cracks, indeed, all around
24/12/2021
"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;"
-W.B Yeats
