The winter, it was the winter all the usual things happened, I have forgotten what would travel from the north as a series seen from above or from below, and the followers, the flowers, I tore them up the next summer, or rather before or immediately after and thought no more about it. But then the summer, plans to sign a contract, the summer came back for what it was: a small sprinkling of rue and a yellow fantasy and we were invited. It appeared tall and swaying and deaf to appeals, and the winter following, this was the arrangement— first one and then into another not yet there, many years of this refrain and all the productions within it coming to mean more of an intimacy between musical instruments and still lifes you lose yourself in again and probably have now, what objects have known in their one dark winter afternoon. They are still visited by everything else and together complete the effect, a distance which the next day took form. That winter stopped and probably on account of summer a spring, spring with a sturdy fringe and a local reputation, it’s outside, in various rooms and looks at everything, a few lilacs in awkward positions, but they were alright, it was summer, very strong, passing organizations, which never finished anything and ended in making all this, cold coals of wildflowers, little wars at the centers, they go on for years burning near the front and from below.
I bypassed all the compromise,
The first ten problems of speech
And the latest, the sharpest, the contest,
Then began, having already fallen,
To rise just less, weaker than
My chore, yours, made else
By othering, by day by day,
The schedules, the routes, task
Whose claim I forgot to throw off,
Rising less but somewhat up anyway
With a kind of strength for having
Done so several times before.
I mean all times so far
Which is the taste of coffee gone
This latest one, and that it sticks
Like nothing else has ever done.
It isn’t a calamity so much
As a disaster that it’s not one.
Things already were real, are
Never just. Did not just get,
Can’t help being so. This
Massive ordinary cloud
Where I surrendered to
Filling out a form in the rain
That doesn’t come or does,
Sent down or kept in overplus
Till the next storm’s approved,
The face notified of its context,
The sequence continuing west
West I said west, turning up
To receive some all,
To celebrate that share of sense
Breaking into day then run
After it as through gray games
I plan to win by losing only
Every time but one, the next
To last or after that, though
What it’s called when it comes
I don’t, I do, pretend to know.