Tawny pain erupts behind
clock-round pools ticking down the mind
to happiness on leather fields,
for grace and fashion yields
the morbid taste of bovine trance
fit for costumes in the sequined dance;
and men will know and beasts will cry
that all that lives must also lie
beside the shifting brook
bleeding fragrant fights into the nook
hidden from heart, hidden from sight
waiting for the peacock light
by which a hammer quakes
and restoration trembles where conscience wakes.
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