Sirens 282-283
I wish I hadn’t promised the rose a song, a stranger ear, a Thursday washed in rain.
I wish I hadn’t prayed for the murmuring lips of chance to send a word or two my way.
A hand of nerves that reaches wide moves the air, taps the world aside
And nearer, nearer to the far shore good men perish in praise on the sweet rocks.
A roaring chorus a shadow of sound; a million shades these laughing ghosts in boots and castagnettes
They add to the music of the unpleasant organ
Through the last of the lion summer nodding in time and walking, walking to the halfway place of god
The chanters remember their attempt to talk
Glad time concealed we rise to steal the night.
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