‘out of poverty
In the small beauty of the forest
The wild deer bedding down—
That they are there!
I remember a square of New York’s Hudson River glinting between warehouses.
Difficult to approach the water below the pier
‘Whether, as the intensity of seeing increases, one’s distance from Them, the people, does not also increase’
Town, a town,
Over which the sun as it comes to it;
Which cools, houses and lamp-posts, ...
Likely as not a ruined head gasket
Spitting at every power stroke, if not a crank shaft
I dreamed myself of their people, I am of their people,
I thought they watched me that I watched them
The householder issuing to the street
Is adrift a moment in that ice stiff