IN THE FALKLANDS

For his soul when homeless then is at home,

And in a paradise where shadows wane

He draws droll figures on the windowpane

To lure his vagrom fellow souls to Rome.

There is a potent rancour in the moon,

Hunting for those who love him still, three

Gleam back. But with detached anxiety

He vows that he will alienate them soon.

He said that love had but two words, the last

And first, and joy in flying laces lay.

He watched each kiss to kill it at stark ease —

His strangler's hands carve prayers for the past —

And chastely he spends an hour every day

Erecting tombstones to carnalities.