Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy, To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly. - Thom Gunn

My thoughts are crowded with death
and it draws so oddly on the sexual
that I am confused
confused to be attracted
by, in effect, my own annihilation.

Distorting hackneyed words in hackneyed songs
He turns revolt into a style, prolongs The impulse to a habit of the time.

Thus for each blunt-faced ignorant one
The great grey rigid uniform combined
Safety with virtue of the sun.
Thus concepts linked like chainmail in the mind.