Insensitivity in the Dead
There is an insensitivity in the dead
which quite paralyses me;
even in the lilies of sleep I see
their eyes staring blindly
out of an incensed slumber
which is not perverse;
no, is not given to mad dreams
pursues no stark wars to the end of plains,
moving with violent gestures through the dark.
The dead, relaxed in the arms of their whore,
the coffined black, sink past Golgotha
and the Seven Hills into a forced
and senseless heat—
through which white orgy
blonde dust is heaped.