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Pieces of the past arising out of the rubble. Which evokes Eliot and then evokes Suspicion. Ghosts all of them. Doers of no good.
The past around us is deeper than.Present events defy us, the past
Has no such scruples. No funeral processions for him. He died in agony. The cock under the thumb.
Rest us as corpsesWe poets
Vain words.
For a funeral (as I live and breathe and speak)
Of good
And impossible
Dimensions.
2.
These big trucks drive and in each one
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