Tripping—alone with Molly
under the gray hibernal
oak trees
of afternoon's imagination—I feel my own
mentality
slowly swinging
open—to the weird
sounds of
a few new birds calling—unseen
down another
snow-muzzled
corridor of ashy city;
and I apprehend
attention—ordinarily all left-
feet and
hands kicking
hard at the sharp air—now bending
back—supple,
ready to settle
easily
for the laziest-
possible definition
of poetry going.
