Moon, refrigerate the weeping child
and guard his stony brook.
There is no thing between the woods
like music of the band
and I’ve got friends in London, no I’ve
got friends in London,
lawyer in their hearth or billion starry heath
in the language of mine
that they laugh at
delphiniums rev up the fire,
really look at them go
lead into the throat
a snowfield gas,
a Crimean slogan,
in England or in sum,
no papers go off bang to pad the fog.
My nation bears repeating and adores
the maudit hermit rising without name into gorgeous claimant lumber.
Here’s your forest,
visitor—soft psssst of the oar—
will you hear a bird parlando
necking at your door.
That duck will float
should it be born.
My face from off its neck is torn.
I owe so much, I have no thing,
the rest I’ll leave the poor.
I’ve seen the truth, I have my mind
I have to have that telephone,
it fit in the hand a billion times over
and that’s not all,
that’s everything.
Compare this to the British isles
what I cannot describe
what I saw—
Prospero wailed on Ariel
and Ariel wailed,
“What a boom year for material!”
By the way,
all this takes place
on my lawn,
it has nothing to do with love
it is perfunctory
it is the end of the year
it is your idea and I want more of it.
Wrap my bonny hood in every paper
on the rack and please to have
a horse to cart
the grocery off my back,
now it’s got late and I will go and will be back.
In the forest some hear winds adjust
a funny tuft of weed,
where is that song or stiffly-collared child
beating on a pot, but in the forest I do not,
I only hear my friends are sawing in the fog.
Some hear their mouth in front
of that but face perform
the words “light company at four”
and a “mall to leaf through eye-correction
literature at eight” and couldn’t that be great
I’d even trade it for a song and some hear beasts
perform an even-tempered chorus,
I only hear those friends
are sawing in the fog.
I found myself in a wood of chairs
the birds were thin as wires,
when information fails, light falls,
the office clock to airy thinness beat.
Is it not gold to have been cheek
in front of that but guilt to bear,
take that, I live the life for the dog you eat,
youth to fortune
instrument you are
prohibitive and lying sack of wood,
I want to walk a line
I want to play my dove
in a magic show about John Donne
but everybody does,
but everybody does
steal all the gold and silver
fall down stabbed, light a pity candle
then get up again and quote,
“I go to sleep and then get up again.”
Moon, refrigerate the sitting child
and guard his stony brook.
There is no thing between the woods
like music of the band,
and I’ve got friends in London, no I’ve
got friends in London.
None of my friends reads poesie.
All around them was trees.
These friends called me sir.
I have said things I would love
to have been true, but thought
and act are crammed with chairs,
soft visitor sit down, and then?
