that poem played a part in triggering this one by Lucie Brock-Broido, which you may enjoy for that reason:

"Am Moor"

Am lean against. Am the heavy hour

Hand at urge, At the verge of one. Am the ice comb of the tonsured

Hair, am the second Hand, halted, the velvet opera glove. Am slant. Am fen, the injure

Wind at withins, Stranger where the storm forms a face if the body stands enough

In a weather this Cripple & this rough. Am shunt. Was moon-shaped helmet left

In bog, was condition Of a spirit shorn, childlike & herd. Was Andalusian, ambsace,

Bird. Am kept. Was keeper of the badly marred, was furious done god, was

Patient, was bad Luck, was nurse. Ninety badly wounded men lay baying

In the reddened reedy Hay of Saxony, was surgeon to their flinch & hoop, was hospice

To their torso hall, Was numinous creature to their dying

Off. Am numb. Was shoulder & queer luck. Am among.

Was gaunt. Was--why--or the mutton & moss. Was the rented room.

Was chamber & ambage & tender & burn. Am esurient, was the hungry form.

Am anatomy. Was the bleating thing.