IN TIME
Clocks ticking in time,
Have birds in them
And grass bending in wind
To meet the sixty seconds in every minute.
Clocks moving in space,
Have met the uncertain smile, the shattered lamp,
And proceeded on,
Not unaware that six o'clock
Serenely waits for seven
Now, and in time.
ANTAGONISM
WITH LANDSCAPE
Women with their soft
eyes
And bodies that invite,
Can never penetrate
To the secret winter of my
mind.
Here stars and flesh
Tremble in hushed approval,
And snow falls delicately
Upon the angles of flesh
and stars.
Women curving gently,
With hair blowing sweetly,
Would be wounded
Wandering among the cold
points
of starlight
So carefully arranged;
And I must shut out
summer's
women
With their breath of
liquid sun,
Until one finds me quiet
and cold,
Here where the snow falls
and falls
In frozen curves.
PALE
BUT PIERCING SKY
It can seem in quiet
moments,
When the sky is a pale but
piercing
blue,
That my eyelids are quite
transparent;
And I can see each object
in the
room
Though my eyes are closed.
How can I explain
what seems
to be?
The light that flows
through my
eyelids is real.
I see the half-opened
door, the
dusty books,
The green umbrella with
its broken
stays
That leans rakishly
against the
wall.
How can I explain?
The yellow flowers are
exactly in
their place,
And the busy sky outside
Is just as high as skies
should
be.
Those flowers, those
books, that
pale blue sky
Move me more than on
ordinary days.
Who shall say they are not
real?
Who shall say that seeming
is not
a part of being?
NO TICKETS
The rude voice announces
That those without tickets
Must leave the train immediately.
People quickly fumble in purses
And bring out small, bright objects
They have carefully tucked into corners.
Mementos delicately wrapped in tissue
Appear and are disregarded;
Pockets are turned inside out.
And the clear voice announces
That those without tickets
Will kindly prepare to descend.
Some are angry and declare
They will sue the railroad
For this humiliation.
Others stare quietly down at their empty hands.
The conductor hurries along the aisle;
His eyes are sad--
They do not understand.
On the crowded platform, the people avoid each
other's gaze
And watch with puzzled, angry eyes
As the shining locomotive moves swiftly out of sight,
While the clear voice politely directs the people
To the nearest exit.
THE
MOMENTS BETWEEN
THE MOMENTS
To Anne Fielding
If I say to you:
See how the neat edge of that red book
Lying on the table
Meets the air so gently;
And how that white piece of thread
Straggling unadmired across the dark polished floor
Is really what you have known
Standing in the wings
Waiting for your cue--
Then will you see
That the moments between the moments are
As full as any upon a lighted stage
Where self meets self in honest puzzlement;
And things are telling us what is real
With each tick of the clock,
Between this moment and the next,
On any humdrum day.
