In a world where no one knows for sure
I roll my blanket for the snow to find:
come winter, then the blizzard, then demand—

On the farm this had been the hour
Persimmon leaves rang like iron
Or the sound of a screendoor slamming

The scientists are in terror
                                           and the European mind stops
Wyndham Lewis accepted blindness

I’ve heard that you said, when a scene you had revised 
Still didn’t suit a man you used to know, 
“But I am not Kafka!” What artist hasn’t sized 

    Now hear this:
While they fought around the ship firom Thessaly, 
    Patroclus came crying to the Greek.

After three hundred years had I not grown
Content with my oblivion and found
Solace in small needs satisfied—one song‚

“Have you any cure,” cried the young sailor
Pulling against the tide,
“Have you any herb or spell to help

Fillmore alleyway window frame fat woman,
drunken, at kitchen greasy oil-clothed table
half gallon carton of milk and a fifth. Dark,

She never knew the brittle rose would wake
    The far-off dormant egypt of its day
That she entombed; spring gave, autumn would take

Ranges
              of clinker heaps
                           go orange now: