Sub Terra

Where shall I find you—  
You, my grotesque fellows  
That I seek everywhere  
To make up my band?  
None, not one  
With the earthy tastes I require:  
The burrowing pride that rises  
Subtly as on a bush in May.  
 
Where are you this day—  
You, my seven-year locusts  
With cased wings?  
Ah, my beauties, how I long!  
That harvest  
That shall be your advent—  
Thrusting up through the grass,  
Up under the weeds,  
Answering me—  
That shall be satisfying!  
The light shall leap and snap  
That day as with a million lashes!  
 
Oh, I have you!  
Yes, you are about me in a sense,  
Playing under the blue pools  
That are my windows.  
But they shut you out still  
There in the half light—  
For the simple truth is  
That though I see you clear enough …  
You are not there.  
 
It is not that—it is you,  
You I want, my companions!  
God! if I could only fathom  
The guts of shadows!—  
You to come with me  
Poking into negro houses  
With their gloom and smell!  
In among children  
Leaping around a dead dog!  
Mimicking  
Onto the lawns of the rich!  
You!  
To go with me a-tip-toe  
Head down under heaven,  
Nostrils lipping the wind!