to escape—

Out of the crooked hole of fate
Come repugnant dreams—
Three people in a car
With cold, grey faces, dead
Sitting upright, separate,
Withered from unlived, life
Unhealthy grey flesh
Rotting desire less in the black, bleak
night.
I want to cut with sharp, cold metal
Myself away from this,
Leave furry foot to rot in jagged clamp
But me scope
Away
From this uncleanness of the sick in
soul,
To run up on the windcleansed hill
And bathe my face and body
In swift-flowing air
On the top of that great moonless,
rearing slope
And look down on bare sea.