Pieces of the past arising out of the rubble. Which evokes Eliot and then evokes Suspicion. Ghosts all of them. Doers of no good.
The past around us is deeper than.
Present events defy us, the past
Has no such scruples. No funeral processions for him. He died in agony. The cock under the thumb.
Rest us as corpses
For a funeral (as I live and breathe and speak)
These big trucks drive and in each one
There is a captain of poetry or a captain of love or a captain of sex. A company
In which there is no vice-president.
You see them first as a kid when you’re hitch-hiking and they were not as big or as final. They sometimes stopped for a hitch-hiker although you had to run.
Now they move down the freeway in some mocking kind of order. The
First truck is going to be passed by the seventh. The distance
Between where they are going and where you are standing cannot be measured.
The road-captains, heartless and fast-moving