their maneuvers. And way over there
shining by itself in the blue twilight
a misunderstood Chalice.
Grand breaks!
the forest is growing too high
(the waves are longer; there is no sound)
the river has turned from its bed
rocks have no moss they have plumes
the chiaroscuro results in serpents.
Danger!
where only the poets
held to the routes by the tender-eyed peasants
and you painters
who have drawn those deep lines on the globes
are without anger and starvation.
My penitent self sing when you perceive
it is a kindergarten
of giants where grapes are growing.
The wind is southerly.
You face a park. There are wings in this atmosphere,
sovereigns who pour forth breezes to refresh
your atlas.
Rulers
have exacted fares, the former slope was icy.
Now in the Spring air with leaves posed above benches
the waterfall as hesitant as ever,
Biography removes her gauntlet
to cast care from your brow.
In America, the Seasons
You in the new winter
stretch forth your hands
they are needles,
the sun quivers,
the landsman translates
epine.
False starter,
regretter of seasons,
you are tomahawking
summer
and
I incline toward you
like dead Europe
wrapped in loose arms.
Yet on this plain
who would hesitate?
seeing the funeral of grass
the thin afternoon
plundering the rocks,
the broken leaves
and silence incontinently snapped.
Who hears Piers calling now?
It is the face
under the blanket
we watch.
Belgravia
I am in love with a man
Who is more fond of his own house
Than many interiors which are, of course, less unique,
But more constructed to the usual sensibility,
Yet unlike those rooms in which he lives
Cannot be filled with crystal objects.
There are embroidered chairs
Made in Berlin to look like cane, very round
And light which do not break, but bend
Ever so slightly, and rock at twilight as the cradle
Rocks itself if given a slight push and a small
Tune can be heard when several of the branches creak.
Many rooms are in his house
And they can all be used for exercise.
There are mileposts cut into the marble,
A block, ten blocks, a mile
For the one who walks here always thinking,
Who finds a meaning at the end of a mile
And wishes to entomb his discoveries.
I am in love with a man
Who knows himself better than my youth,
My experience or my ability
Trained now to reflect his face
As rims reflect their glasses,
Or as mirrors, filigreed as several European
Capitals have regarded their past
Of which he is the living representative,
Who alone is nervous with history.
I am in love with a man
In this open house of windows,
Locks and balconies,
This man who reflects and considers
The brokenhearted bears who tumble in the leaves.
In the garden which thus has escaped all intruders
There when benches are placed
Side by side, watching separate entrances,
As one might plan an audience
That cannot refrain from turning ever so little
In other directions and witnessing
The completion of itself as seen from all sides,
I am in love with him
Who only among the invited hastens my speech.
In the Alps
