Parading

Sometimes I play a game in which my primitive craft fires

Some poems

But he is free to turn : this is the speaking tree,

which is the rhythmic erection of essence.

When I tell you the day is a poem

Get back to me by facsimile or dream of climbing a night ladder

Make my dreams poems

into the wind. Rich fresh wine

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—