Mind’s residue is vein-violet
(old women with their stockings
hanging down)—gorged with
color and superb as light.
“The spangled riddle is twitter
and purr,” the mussels murmured.
Of an evening,
in the empty park, sometimes I hear
the rustle of revival-meeting
pamphlets. Band music, with
surrealist trumpets, knifes the air.
Eagles with tusks perform in sieves.
The ectoplasm of Immanuel Kant unwittingly appears.
These bilious things, fracturing
the night’s surface, swerve
into graphs, hanging like crags in jagged lines:
and not without meaning.
Reproduced from The Collected Poems of Weldon Kees, 3rd edition, edited by Donald Justice, by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright 1975, 1962 by the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright renewed 2003 by the University of Nebraska Press.