Now I am in a country place.
Typed letters arrive they offer
typed advice.
I am sick well sick again
forced to accept
radiators that smell of warm dust
a bed bad books of verse.

A horse the color of pewter runs
wild:
self-conscious in pretended madness he believes
he is acting in a film he is a child
in a silver disguise.

Coiled ropes as firm as sculpture
rest on the ship's deck:
ropes of darkening gold are faintly oiled
like the braided hair of a great Nordic Zeus.
And there is metal everywhere:it sends
a song out
into the unreal air.

I turn my back I walk away
(I wisely take no chances here)
Pressing a silver button I unfurl
my white umbrella: silk.
I hold it as a shield against
The nightmare air.