Parading

I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk

Time is the thing I am made of. Time is the

Sometimes I don’t know how to make it

A flow of water that found its way long ago

Sometimes

and all I know are the seventy manes

I’ve lived humbly, reading the paper,

That limpid mirror that wakes us in the night

How swiftly the strained honey

somewhere the Perseids are falling