Long-stemmed letters
rank swiftly, stand fast to hold Sibylline command
of today's post, as if they had been run here
too quick for any digust or non-hearing to tear up
the poet's orders.
The air is finger-cold
through a house's ill-contrived windows, makes the hand move more frantic
over lines, in which I may warp my own characters;
sun's not hot nor gas lit high enough to uncramp a pen's grasp
working to write enough.
American poor man
today can't break the ice that's thin and hard enough
on a small town's ill-drainings; can stand by lean trunks and branches
snow-marked, not by ruined walls or gutted houses
to make gossip
not yet considered songs; an eccentric phrase
hangs in conversation; song was last night
fixed in a hymn-tune or on bland television.
Moved, in real air, we go in to read.
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