These forms once so well controlled
obedient always ready to receive
the dead matter of poetry
frightened by fire and the smell of blood
have broken out and dispersed

they attack their creator
tear him and drag him
down endless streets
through which have long since passed
all orchestras schools church processions

the breathing meat
filled with blood
is still the food
for these perfected forms

they press so close around their spoil
that even silence does not penetrate

December 1956

The King