Beneath the Thames, dead things creep;
gnaw bones of children drowned at midnight;
breathe mud, fishtails, effluent, discarded boots;
snap at silver scales that tarnish,
decay, become part of the silting,
biding-its-time promise of silurid gloom.
Suppressed for the while, ten feet of
ice beneath the oh so hated and
object of dark resolve
stamping out a clattering dance above
that pounds this twisted brain like a bible.


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