As the days become longer,
it grows easy to see
how everything yearns
to lend part
to Reality—
as the sky
becomes gradually less
and less obscure,
it reveals not the text
of the song, but the bird.
As if consciousness
is slowly taking
the place of creation,
all of a sudden,
in some Great War of Facts,
those half-color daydreams
and vague quarter-things
of spring
all burn
to be expressed.
