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Show XIII. You get up and walk, in the dark, about the house, the curtains shift from blue to black, frogs croak, your white nightgown trails after you like a school of blind fish plunging toward the lighted surface of your skin...so I dreamt... and woke, and frantic-why?-I went outside...at every moment, drowned. And now to find you here, asleep: your eyelids flutter-are flying through that other world than this, and Fall winds still than those...which drove us here, rushing, like the mad-leaves on the lawns, for a place to curl against, awry. XIV. The dawn'unsettles on the tipped branches: Spring, and we explore the drama of rejuvenations, dog-tired. I owe you much. A hand in getting, piece-by-piece, all-fired and w e l l . . . t h e green i s trying to get i t right, about, and I hear nothins but the slough of fallen leaves. Pain is a loss, or lack of it- the carbon-copied skies reel in t h i s strange change of heart: new me depends old you--love dislocates, or so I say, blind from the s t a r t, your image coiling on the lawn. |