Hart Crane

Of a steady winking beat between

Systole, diastole spokes-of-a-wheel

One rushing from the bed at night

May find the record wedged in his soul.

Above the feet the clever sheets

Lie guard upon the integers of life:

For what skims in between uncurls the toe,

Involves the hands in purposeless repose.

But from its bracket how can the tongue tell

When systematic morn shall sometime flood

The pillow—how desperate is the light

That shall not rouse, how faint the crow's cavil

As, when stunned in that antarctic blaze,

Your head, unrocking to a pulse, already

Hallowed by air, posts a white paraphrase

Among bruised roses on the papered wall.

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