I. I want to wallow for a while.
To wait, to wade, and wander in this
dead man's place a while yet.
But the thumb of God is on
my chest, and the forefinger
of God is at my spine and,
Oh!, how he presses.
II. There is no conscience in
California, no dread of great
moving things, no iron in
its soul. I was made for
colder things and colder questions.
Have you fire? Have you
furs? Have you flint?
III. "She is all states, and all
princes, I." But that is
a ghost too costly for
the keeping. Bid farewell,
farewell. Princes now
are out of fashion, and so
it seems am I.
IV. My eyes are stupid in these
hours. More streetlights when I
would rather have the dark.
The burn scar on my hand is
faintly shining. I took it on the
sinister side, and something in that
is fitting.
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