August 6, 2015:
But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.
She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes.
The shadows of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up.
And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats.
Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.