Fighting to wring a foot-pound’s unrest
Out of smug innocence, my own, the echo comes round
Of a better self that loved Man’s defeated best:
The street’s no longer crowded but peopled to the gutter
And then nothing in the air is unexpected…
Not that a fate which I’ve embraced second by second,
At the slightest taste of resignation
Should display all disparagement ever detested,
The Holy Confusion over us reigning,
Nor that great, for such Complexity to be admired,
Is the unremunerated labour socially required.