desires has welled up within me:       only you have attained, waning moon.

  The moon soars white above the stony street, wan with fulfilment. O will the tide of yearning ebb with the moon's ebb leaving me cool darkness and peace with the moon's waning?

 Madrid

III

 The shrill wind scatters the bloom of the almond trees but under the bark of the shivering poplars the sap rises and on the dark twigs of the planes buds swell.

Out in the country along soggy banks of ditches among busy sprouting grass there are dandelions. Under the asphalt under the clamorous paving-stones the earth heaves and stirs and all the blind live things expand and writhe.

Only the dead lie still in their graves, stiff, heiratic, only the changeless dead lie without stirring.

 Spring is not a good time for the dead.

Battery Park

IV

Buildings shoot rigid perpendiculars latticed with window-gaps into the slate sky.

 Where the wind comes from the ice crumbles about the edges of green pools; from the leaping of white thighs comes a smooth and fleshly sound, girls grip hands and dance grey moss grows green under the beat of feet of saffron crocus-stained.

 Where the wind comes from purple windflowers sway on the swelling verges of pools, naked girls grab hands and whirl fling heads back           stamp crimson feet.

Buildings shoot rigid perpendiculars latticed with window-gaps into the slate sky.

Garment-workers loaf in their overcoats       (stare at the gay breasts of pigeons that strut and peck in the gutters). Their fingers are bruised tugging needles through fuzzy hot layers of cloth, thumbs roughened twirling waxed thread; they smell of lunchrooms and burnt cloth. The wind goes among them detaching sweat-smells from underclothes making muscles itch under overcoats tweaking legs with inklings of dancetime.

 Prev. P 44/51 next