Fall 1964 • Vol. XXVI No. 4 Poetry |

Ditty

The very dead of night: no noise Mounts from the avenue; no smoke Uncoils to an unspotted snake Rubbing black skin against the skies. What act of violence prepares Emergence from a midnight dream? What murder murders murder's name In a mute room of settled fears? Fugitive silence! … Now here, now there, The traffic of the world begins Restoring men to daily sins That are fulfilled with practiced care. In dark, in day, self is the self, Does what it does and then affirms The several slaughters it performs, Calling necessity the wolf. No pestilence, no civil blight, Alters the habit fixed to breath: Men feed on blood, we want more death, And live in love of appetite.

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