When my eyes are weeds,
And my lips are petals, spinning
Down the wind that has beginning
Where the crumpled beeches start
Listen here. I've never played it safe
in spite of what the critics say.
This was its promise, held to faithfully:
The early morning sun came in this way
Until the angle of its saffron beam
So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.
Surely I will be disquieted
by the hospital, that body zone-
A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
There is a blue fragrance, essence of dusk.
The smoke of last things lingers on old clothes.
Sun has become as rare as goldenrod.
I call for August, but no answer comes.
Silence again. The glorious symphony
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds cease,
Save hum of insects' aimless industry.
What in our lives is burnt
In the fire of this?
The heart’s dear granary?
The much we shall miss?