PASTORAL
LOVE SONG
Black branches
carry square leaves
to the wood’s top.
They hold firm
break with a roar
show the white!
Your moods are slow
the shedding of leaves
and sure
the return in May!
We walked
in your father’s grove
and saw the great oaks
lying with roots
ripped from the ground.
M. B.
He looks out: there is
a glare of lights
before a theater,—
a sparkling lady
passes quickly to
the seclusion of
her carriage.
Presently
under the dirty, wavy heaven
of a borrowed room he will make
re-inhaled tobacco smoke
his clouds and try them
against the sky’s limits!
TRACT
See! the hearse leads.
I begin with a design for a hearse.
For Christ’s sake not black—
nor white either— and not polished!
Let it be weathered— like a farm wagon—
with gilt wheels (this could be
applied fresh at small expense)
or no wheels at all:
a rough dray to drag over the ground.
Knock the glass out!
My God—glass, my townspeople!
For what purpose? Is it for the dead
to look out or for us to see
how well he is housed or to see
the flowers or the lack of them—
or what?
To keep the rain and snow from him?
He will have a heavier rain soon:
pebbles and dirt and what not.
Let there be no glass—
and no upholstery phew!
and no little brass rollers
and small easy wheels on the bottom—
my townspeople what are you thinking of?