This cold aromatic liquor (Poire William favoured by me)
Contains within its anaesthetic taste a certain memory;
So when the parks are exquisite with corpses and crows
And every geographical entity cushioned in its heaven, and
Enoch of the celestial civil service is dressed in
Black overalls, I stop and turn to the scales of the night.
Being soaked in a dark liquid without becoming black
Is to attract ghosts by burning spirit-money at
Night whilst the serpent, or, sunlight and the woman,
With tail in mouth, dying or dead,
Appears in this spirit by way of appearance;
And the queer scarlet glow of a bomb- blast shows
Up in the first day of spring thunder.
A sigh escapes me. I remain as mute as a fish.
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