Parading

And I wasn’t elated or frightened,

the horned branches that lean

the man who laughs at his first breath

coursing, & the sun is

the thousand blinding coins of it spilling

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,

that is a made place, created by light

Don’t they move like jubilation on their wheel?

flowers like the wind.

Chevauchent, faisans les saulx.