It's like recalling—so many
spindly
rust colored cords of
ivy—still clinging
hard
and huge and
prodigiously
rudely—
to any old tough
brick wall in
Chicago in early fall;
I mean—how it rather
has to be
the whole thing
that's the poem—
at the moment
you
first chance
and look at it at all—and that's not all
but it was—probably
everything.
