Tuesday, 3 AM
poem
They in thee a thousand colours see
And all the sightless devils conjured up
By your blue unregarded dreams:
Neither peace nor pity
In the dark, the pale ceiling
Flattened out, canvas
For painting of the half-uncanny mind.
To have so many ghosts unnamed
Ill fits a man of your distinction,
(Making more a visitation than a visit)
Who thought himself a very King in grey
And of a certainty believed in God —
Through the night you wavered dimly on
Hoping luminate words could make a saint
Out of the thin and bloody dark:
Desire singularity, pray
By the fall and void, grey
In isolation splendid and afraid
For there is nothing on you laid
Except the earth, except nine hells
And heaven, all the world, your heart turned mute
In the ecstasy of strange pursuit.