Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .