A hollow place
And he’s been telling you, “I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.”
He’s Yeats’ 59th swan, alone in a crowd; a “paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick”
“Shape without form, shade without colour.” “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” He’s a hollow man, a grave man. But well read.
In the niche falls the shadow between desires -See me as I see myself, please- and spasms that can pass as art.