For Quentin Compson


boston emerges with a headless
sneer, it falls to the water in
a wash of blind wind-

and they see, the fish in the water-
they see heavy boston with irons
to its blinded eyes- and the clocks
are above the fish, they do not
see the clocks- it is a quiet world of the

and the past lives
in its quiet world
in a world with fish-

wise boston with its
faceless smirk felt this
back in the river. it fell
along the spine

of the clocks, it fell along above the break of
cold white water, until the clocks
were in shadow-
and the fish did
not see the
shadows, they did
not see the shadows around the heavy iron

and the past lives
in a quiet world and refractory-

from the quiet,
it is all the grand joke of the past-

the water and the blind fish,
until eyeless boston drowns under
the water, the white water and
the quiet place where the
past is-


the dry road is lucky in summer-
it reverts back to the dryness, it clouds
down the white sky, until everything
is seen for everywhere- and the road
is everywhere

and the cotton is
dry, it dries under the
deep sky-

and the sky is white, with the hot sun, it is a lucky summer, the
dearth of absconding heat, it absconds,

until it is night
and the birds are
quiet. and quiet until
the sky flares white, then
the road sounds like a clock-

that is the wind
on the road.

it is a lucky road, and all the wars are a long time
past, the wars live in the past like pale fish, darting in
the ruts

in the lucky

in the small lakes
where the birds
bide, with small
alert eyes, like


old colonel-
old colonel lives in the dust
(they take the land they take the
iron they take the white cedar and the
dry roads and when they take the land they
leave their red hands on it on it, the


old colonel-

we sit the men of honor in
the road, and watch them come
from far off, and when the
sun rises they are gone-

and the irons are as heavy as fish-
as the old
colonel in the

as the makebelieve wars in the dust-

as the city
sitting at the
bottom of the river
watching the fish
and not hearing
the quarter clock,
the broken clock and
the blood on
the broken clock-

(old colonel this virgin land this virgin land was not made by man nor for, the man made it virgin you know old colonel, and then afterward, in the small groves of dying trees there was a rape, the land gasping like a clock, and the white virgin land fell away



in the end