One stands by the classroom door, and is all dark, his dark hair, like Alexander. This is the he who would be Alexander, who would stand over the cusp of the great full world and see brilliant Arabian mounts, the imperial blackness of grand horse and the roaring guiltless mobbing cry of war.

(One sits by the window, by the sun. He has the eyes of his fathers. He has the faraway eyes of his fathers, who fall back, back into the odium of Eastern history. He touches his face. His face is still the same, nothing, nothing changes not his grey eyes, the grey in his hair. He is so young, for the grey of rivers. He would stand by the war and weep for it. For the war, even)

Alexander, his name is David. He and his dreaming black horses are proud. The sort of grandiose proud they painted from far away, he is the dark painting. His dark eyes his dark angled eyes, and he has the angles of Prague about his face. But, this Alexander, he stands far from the darkened seas. He watches the morning, and it is all his, and it is all the wild eyes of the impatient horses, as he stands by the door, angled and watching the morning.

(He is only David. He can put his slight hand to his young face and feel back, back, the words that perhaps his fathers may have said, their weight. Their meaning. He stands, being David, falters towards the open window. The factory debauches the blue of the autumn, he would be more for grey days. He is gray November, David. He feels the width of lonely rivers. He stares out to the rolling fields beyond and sees the wretched consumptive beauty of his own slavic past. He faces the dark seas of the east. He does not mount, and ride far to the great endless land)

This Alexander, he sits. Poetry is far reaching for him, poetry is hard and heavy like the bronze he must have once worn. Poetry is a clap of sudden storm, and the down pouring of valiant rain, the feel of the far rain on his dark face. Poetry is his broad shoulders, back towards the secret Prague he wears about his face like an odium. This David, Alexander, he wears the brutal poetry on his broad shoulders, and rides of, the clatter of conquering tread like poetry. And nothing like.

(This David, only David, wears poetry like the window, like brittle glass and gleaming blue, in his genuflecting gray eyes that speak to the grey floor. David sees poetry in the Great Home cities of the disenchanted east. David is poetry in his Slavish kings, the hilt of his stabbing fathers, back in their lavish mocking courts, conspiring to bring about this David in this far time, his hair graying so young, so young in his November eyes, which are his only poetry. He touches his face. That is poetry)

My Alexander warms his dark Prague face to the sky, pushing behind his emperor shoulders the darkness of deep Eastern rivers. He has his own name and his own city yes, but they clatter behind him like summer dust, like the rising dust of his night-eyed horses.

(My David bows low every night, not to the East, nor the broad noble West, nor any compass point only to the incensed haloes that have fallen to his feet, the enraptured ghosts that remind his grayish eyes of forlorn nobility. David is afraid of horses. He may, as many have, as many will, fall to the hard permafrost ground)


It is November

And it is radiant, about the brush of sky! Oh the cresting arc of sky, it is a frieze of unimaginable cathedral length. The leaves in armistice patterns are falling about the cracked cement, the unperturbed fields, on and on until they meet the high heaven of the whole word.

The two men stand-

In standing they become the armistice leaves, the consecrated sky. One is Alexander-

The chain-mail glove of verse in his broad hands. He grabs the reigns of the wild horses and steps upward, to the gallant sky. The other wears poetry in his tragic eyes, in his grayish november eyes, throwing small stones into the deep eastern seas,

And he sits beside lonely rivers