“I am arms and legs, pulse, / and my secret interior that has said nothing this time, nothing bad.”
Men standing out in storms,
telling us how violent the wind is,
showing us they can still stand up to it
Here, the trees pay their respects, mourn openly,
wear dreadlocks of hanging Spanish moss
sun bleached ash-blue and swaying; in seawind
they become prayer shawls
salted with dust, grief threads of every kind
Oh, life of clay! Oh, century’s death throes!
I am afraid only he will understand you
Who wears the helpless human smile of a man
Who has exhausted himself.
Somewhere in the world
something is happening
which will make its slow way here.