"Ballad in I."
Sing in this blinking twilight, in this mining district
filling with wild Irish striking it rich,
spinning Christ, swigging spirits, rigging spits,
picking fights, swinging fists, slitting twitching skin
in lipid fits, crippling limbs, spitting kinikinnick,
filling trim tins with hissing piss.
His mind's still spiting, knifing
with skill, his victimizing intrinsic within his mind,
grinding within his skin, Jim sings--
I'm tiring, I'm tiring.
His grim instinct wilting.
Dispiriting Jim, climbing hill's hilt,
drifting Jim, sighing in this lilting, sinking light.