I sang to you and the moon

Though I can whisper to you I am looking for an undertaker humming a lullaby and throwing his feet in a swift and mystic buck-and-wing, now you see it and now you don’t.Fish to swim a pool in your garden flashing a speckled silver,A basket of wine-saps filling your room with flame-dark for your eyes…

you and they thin-gray thin-dusk lovely.So it goes: either the early morning lights are lovely or the early morning star.I am glad I have seen racehorses, women, mountains.

And the farmer done in the fieldsAnd the cows in the barns with bulging udders.Take the cows and the farmer,Take the barns and bulging udders.Leave the red gold of poolsAnd sunset furrows six o’clock.The farmer’s wife is singing.The farmer’s boy is whistling.I wash my hands in red gold of pools.

He weighed 240 pounds, and could hold me,Who weighed 105 pounds, outward easily with one hand.He came home drunk and lay on me with the breath of stalebeerBlowing from him and jumbled talk that didn’t mean anything.I stood it two years and one hot night when I refused himAnd he struck his bare fist against…

Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumultsOf night and the seaAnd the stars and storms.Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers,Out into the gloom it swings and batters,Out into the wind and the rain and the vast,Out into the pit of a great black world,Where fogs are at battle, sky-driven, sea-blown,Love of mist…

Come to me only with playthings now. . .A picture of a singing woman with blue eyesStanding at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers. . .Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling storiesOf days that never happened anywhere in the world. . .No more iron cold and real to handle,Shaped for…