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
We poets
Vain words.
For a funeral (as I live and breathe and speak)
Of good
And impossible

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