Some Right Hands Sternly Grasp

Some right hands sternly grasp
The pillar over me,
The glinting rings, the clinking stone,
The nose-flutes fashioned out of bone,
The weeping of the sea.

We see on treasure maps
A litter in the deep,
A crowd of stars that burns the heart,
A meeting cancelled at the start,
A cancer of the sleep.

They hold the dusty books
And sneeze them mostly clean,
And when they see the title page
And feel their mettle melt with rage
And quit the blasted scene,

I grab the inky tusk
To curse my sabbath eve,
To sign the will that gives away
To Death the silent holy day,
Too great a loss to grieve.