And blow, blow dust off an enfeebled spine,
Filling lungs with belletristic grime.

Your fabled self, lying there error prone.

For hours now the Last Supper has been over.
And the beating almost over, and morning’s cry
Yet to be heard by the workmen in the courtyard

Once it seemed possible, those boys
Peeking out of gun slits at the German line
Or on graves detail, wet, miserable,