
I Don’t Know
I don’t know where you are.
I gave up combing welkins—
Where the moon hangs high
And doggedly fixed
Among loose cannons full of stars;
Where the puffed up sun softens and jars
Morning clouds laden with rain.
You missed the spring here,
It’s blowing again.
The suckle buttons, fat with honey,
Tempt the open mouths
Of my garden gutters.
The cat mutters a wishful mew
At the preying thought
Of ambling through a green fold,
To belt and prick at a swallow’s wing.
How low these days ring;
In a snug chapel of tingling chimes.
I need you
To render them Cathedral bells
Clamoring, pealing, exalted, high—
Boldly usher in this beauty,
Like a single, saffron stroke
Swabbed across a blue and black basalt sky.