Parading

Of some enchanted land we know not where,

the true nature of poetry. The drive

the late sun

no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer

the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Swallow the hook of happiness and mirth,

are their flimsy hands just pointing, open,

in exactly the same way that stone

Just swerving memories