I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing.
I saw the figure 5in goldon a redfiretruckmovingtenseunheededto gong clangssiren howlsand wheels rumblingthrough the dark city.
What will the good Father in Heaven sayto the local judge if he do not solve this problem?A little two-pointed smile and–pouff!–the law is changed into a mouthful of phrases.
in a soiled undershirthis hair standing outon all sidesstood on his toesheels togetherarms gracefullyfor the momentcurled above his head.Then he whirled aboutboundedinto the airand with an entrechatperfectly achievedcompleted the figure.My mothertaken by surprisewhere she satin her invalid’s chairwas left speechless.Bravo! she cried at lastand clapped her hands.The man’s wifecame from the kitchen:What goes on here?…
outside my window:Play louder.You will not succeed. I ambound more to my sentencesthe more you batter at meto follow you.And the wind,as before, fingers perfectlyits derisive music.
and spring–a matter of a few daysonly,–a flower or two pickedfrom mud or from among wet leavesor at best against treacherousbitterness of wind, and sky shiningteasingly, then closing in blackand sudden, with fierce jaws.IIMarch,you reminded me ofthe pyramids, our pyramids–stript of the polished stonethat used to guard them!March,you are like Fra Angelicoat Fiesole, painting on…
the top ofthe jamclosetfirst the rightforefootcarefullythen the hindstepped downinto the pit ofthe emptyflowerpotAnonymous submission.
