Whatever comes to pass: you know your time,
my bird, you put on your veil
and fly through the mist to me.

Its pupils (I see them now, violet) were actual holes.

Terrified, one paw raised, trembling on the ciment edge of the threshold, it whispered, down in the snow— blue fluctuating flute.

Probably
evening is falling. Not because of the years,
which are numerous, but because the play

So many poems begin where they
should end, and never end.
Mine never end, they run on

  I remember an old city, red walls and battlements, on the immense plain burnt out from the August heat, with the far-away spongy cold comfort of green hills in the background. Enormous emptiness of bridge-arches over the stagnant river dried to thin leaden puddles: a black moulding of mosquitoes shifting and silent along the banks: among the dazzle and 

Doubly silent the afternoon
By virtue of empty summer, and of a flame
Overflowing, is it from this vase

This cluster of small houses, gracefully etched
against the sky and sea, with its fine harmonies
of line and color—who would suspect the vast

Time slows down, the light smoothes out surfaces, seeps
into old closets, drawers, and underneath the beds;
dries the pillow’s saliva, abrogates the winding of the stairs,

All night long, on all sides of the house, there ate large, black, invisible horses
grazing in the stubbled field. Their legs are tied. The sound of their hooves
moving across the dry sheaves, is the only living thing in the world.

In a nearly empty off-season cafe, just across
From the row of grand Saratoga hotels, I lost faith
In the elegance of the facades fronting Congress Park,