SUICIDE

The boy was growing faint and weak.
It was morning, ten o'clock.

His heart was filled with broken wings
and rag-flowers, feeble worthless things.

He felt that there was only one
word for his mouth to close upon.

On taking off his gloves, he saw
soft ashes falling to the floor.

Through the window, he saw a tower.
He was the window and the tower.

No doubt he also saw the clock
watch him, unmoving in its box.

He saw his quiet shadow stretched
flat out upon the white silk couch.

And, geometrical and rigid,
he broke the mirror with a hatchet.

At which, a giant jet of gloom
burst into the unreal room.