What a tumultuous million
invisible and peculiar melodies
must be simultaneously hitting
their sourest notes—at the very instant
the wan morning air—such a moist
cold
and vast slow gray,
so wide-
open
and unclaimed,
but which kindly comprises
in that boundlessness,
a home
to those little magic kisses, those flighty birds
of mere possibilities,
evacuating calm and mildly
through your wettish nose and lips—
suddenly,
and inexorably—
condenses
into tame and shrewd gunmetal
curtain of air
which calls itself—the afternoon;
and which offers no shelter anywhere
in its dark hard folds
to those silly prospects
and winged potentialities,
but only scrapes hard
at the earth near your shoes,
hollow, desiccated, and brooding—
how much stuff
do you
still have to do?
