His piercing pince-nez. Some dim frieze
Hands point to a dim frieze, in the dark night.
In the book of his music the corners have straightened:
Which owe their presence to their sleeping hands.
The ox-blood from the hands which play
For fire for warmth for hands for growth
Is there room in the room which you room in?
Upon his structured tomb:
Still they mean something. For the dance
And the architecture
Weave among incidents
May be portentous to him
We are sleeping fragments of his sky
Wind giving presence to fragments.
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