Young People
Slowly he is eating the stars--
they are like the spines of books to him,
but don't throw two ladies or locations at him.
He called this Nomad's Land.
Yet it was clean and serious. Not, it is true,
cheerful. Not by any means. Yet the old men
in pajamas made a leisurely appearance.
Good times were on the phonograph.
Surely somebody can be his wife,
surely there are strong husbands for such women,
who keep a rifle in the broom closet
and never ask for i.d. Their colors:
those of a saffron strand at evening
in disappointed August. We rise with the swifts,
never to know what cut us loose.
No comments:
Post a Comment