Land avoids the littered sight
of restless horizons and bitter night.
We remnants of a long-lost race
of Phoenician's blood, sea, talk, and taste.
Would that the old dregs would etch themselves
on an ancient tongue that speaks so well
and soft around the stunted point
which juts about the tenon joint.
We are a sweet sugar wind but dirge-center born.
We know the selves that wage such wars,
but come too slow to judge the haste
of easy motives with most grievous weight.
What a blind form of man we are to forget our crutch
and blend our love with chance regret. We bleed enough.
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