Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry "We are ripe, reap us!"
—Ted Hughes
I begin to think Actaeon never changed.
...
1
Fitfully in pictures disappearing now,
They are not toys but, rather, tiny horses
In the parade of youth: polish, spit, and display
...
The climate thinks with its knees.
When the wound opens, music suspires.
Opening a gate, I gain the color
below the roof tiles and the tree limbs.
...
Before anything could happen,
flecks of real gold
on her mouth, her eyes more
convex than any others,
...
They all wore little hats
Vermont that I
Can see, the river its coronet
Of yellow beetles—crawling,
...
It doesn't matter
A damn what's playing—
In the dead of winter
You go, days of 1978 -
...
The bar in the commuter station steams
like a ruin, its fourth wall open
to the crowd and the fluttering timetables.
...
All their songs are of one hour
Before dawn, when the birds begin.
I sing another.
In helpless midday, at the hour
...