March

    There's a wind blowing

    Cold through the corridors,

    A ghost-wind,

    The flapping of defeated wings,

    A hell-fantasy

    From meadows damned

    To eternal April

    And listening, listening

    To the wind

    I hear

    The throat-rattle of dying men,

    From whose ears oozes

    Foamy blood,

    Throttled in a brothel.

    I see brightly

    In the wind vacancies

    Saint Thomas Aquinas

    And

    Poetry blossoms

    Excitingly

    As the first flower of truth.