Волны

           Ihopetoinheritanarm-chairandaTurkeycarpet.Myshoulderistothewheel;Irollthedarkbeforeme,spreadingcommercewheretherewaschaosinthefarpartsoftheworld.IfIpresson,--fromchaosmakingorder,IshallfindmyselfwhereChathamstood,andPitt,BurkeandSirRobertPeel.ThusIexpungecertainstains,anderaseolddefilements;thewomanwhogavemeaflagfromthetopoftheChristmastree;myaccent;beatingsandothertortures;theboastingboys;myfather,abankeratBrisbane.

           ’Ihavereadmypoetinaneating-house,and,stirringmycoffee,listenedtotheclerksmakingbetsatthelittletables,watchedthewomenhesitatingatthecounter.Isaidthatnothingshouldbeirrelevant,likeapieceofbrownpaperdroppedcasuallyonthefloor.Isaidtheirjourneysshouldhaveanendinview;theyshouldearntheirtwopoundtenaweekatthecommandofanaugustmaster;somehand,somerobe,shouldfoldusaboutintheevening.WhenIhavehealedthesefracturesandcomprehendedthesemonstrositiessothattheyneedneitherexcusenorapology,whichbothwasteourstrength,Ishallgivebacktothestreetandtheeating-shopwhattheylostwhentheyfellonthesehardtimesandbrokeonthesestonybeaches.Ishallassembleafewwordsandforgeroundusahammeredringofbeatensteel.

           ’ButnowIhavenotamomenttospare.Thereisnorespitehere,noshadowmadeofquiveringleaves,oralcovetowhichonecanretreatfromthesun,tosit,withalover,inthecooloftheevening.