I

He threw his bat down third and seized the pen:
“My words will make the ages better men!”

The time of year when all my blood is thick,
This is the season when my heart must die.

Shortly before the noon is always high—

But there were trees with human faces.
Afraid, I ran a little way
But must have wandered in a circle.

In the first half-light of the morning the farmer turns toward
                                                       the window
Besides which he sleeps; through which he sees his fields

Water, with lidless stare,
Invites a cool surmise,
Holds there his curious eyes,

Dig that tomb
Where our kin
Rest their swords

Remember too hot pride can cool as sweet,
More delicate and richer than deceit.

Where maid and eunuch whisper ‘love and death’,
While Hawk and Eagle grouse and peck and lurch,
Two parakeets upon a single perch.

I’ve heard the sea upon the troubled rocks
Waste this past night, with dreams more troubled still,
And where the images that you and I

The world is white, twig tracked by wrens,
supposed color of innocence,
swanned with snow on hedge and fence.