This sweep of sky lit now by gold-white clouds, Rounded and full, maternal breasts leant over The young brown furrows, promising Their slopes with sweetest rain to cover, Burst on me with one soul-awakening shock Of glad surprise. my eyes Blinded by beauty after the long dark Of inward-downward looking. Gnarled old vines March down the slope in ordered lines, Each trunk withered and brown as weathered rock. Theresa the Yugoslav who works beside me Chides at my idleness: “You do not care for money then? You mark My words, you better hurry …” But I stand, Wet golden […]
The leaves are gone from the tree, Eddying. We too, wind-cold, with the leaves Revolving. We that were green in the sun Have the yellow of death in our veins. The tree is gaunt in the star-shells, Silver and black, grotesque. And the voice of the wind is a myth In the shouts of the hate. We know of our end— The fear is over for us. But we think and we think– O God! Will there be Spring again?
The planes seem to crash into my room. I feel their wings lurch In torment of darkness And silver; they leave their shadow Flat for an instant, then run Across the floor, like mice. One long, little shadow of death. Sweep, dip, roar in the sudden Zipped bass of them Above my roof, and I crouch down. I am nothing but the seed of fear, Crouching under the plane’s white Ribbed bellies. They are dark and silver in sunlight. Yet in my room they become Little shadows, scimetar slim as Fugitive fear, little shadows left For an instant at my […]
This is the hour When the black dog is eating moonstones and on the dark river gipsies are singing of moons made of blood. This is the hour when moths speak of insistence to a flame of white silence when clocks press the unwanted minutes into caps of metal. This is the hour when Proserpina forgets to cup the moon in her hands and love is a flower of paper under glass and dust.