hours that float idly down —
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.
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are the desolate, dark weeks
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the back wings
hospital wherenothingwill grow liecindersIn which shinethe brokenpieces of a greenbottle
School is over. It is too hot
in light frocks they walk the streetsto while the time away.They have grown tall. They holdpink flames in their right hands.In white from head to foot,with sidelong, idle look–in yellow, floating stuff,black sash and stockings–touching their avid mouthswith pink sugar on a stick–like a carnation each holds in her hand–they mount the lonely street.
I will teach you my townspeople
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Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed
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If I when my wife is sleeping
are sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdance naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand singing softly to myself:‘I am lonely, lonely.I was born to be lonely,I am best so! ‘If I admire my arms, my face,my shoulders, flanks, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—Who…