In time the curtain edges will grow light. The mind blanks at the glare. No trick dispels. The anaesthetic from which none come round. And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
One side will have to go Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse The sky is white as clay, with no sun Work has to be done Postmen like doctors go from house to house.