Thursday, October 27, 2011

Army (draft)

The Morning’s black armour is well-oiled,
And He encroaches silently.

The gloom of dreams remains uncongealed,
Held at bay with idle browses

Through the rooms of many houses.
They come, shaking in triumph

Their long grey hair. They come
By my hands which halt the binding flame

Which for me would signal sleep.

See Joyce's 'I Hear an Army'

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