Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!
Summers stream wont run for ever.
We cant pump out the accordions roar
night after night, in a dusty fever.
Ive heard of age. Terrible prophecies!
No wave will lift its hands to the stars.
They say who believes? No face in the leaves,
no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.
Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.
Its noon in the world. Where are your eyes?
See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,
fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.
Here, the citys trolley-lines end.
Beyond theres no rails, its the trees.
Beyond its Sunday, breaking branches,
the glade running off, sliding on leaves.
Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,
The worlds always like this, says the wood.
So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,
So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.
