Trouble me not, Pip: finding my
body
on the platform at Bank, erect at Suez.
None has declined more since '57. But the
spasm that runs every night over Fleet.
Play this songthe
sound of poor herdsmen
that come now: enjoying their ports in Greens.
Strike a note for the old man whose hat
is paper. Read by some. In finance.
It was May; the sky was early technicolour.
I was removed by something greased, a civil
servantlearning
Pythagoras after Eden.
the
sound of poor herdsmen
