Every corruption straight from the heart as usual
Puffy and sore like girls’ eyes in kidney bowls,
The four depraved consorts exquisite and dull
Mingle at the fountain where the bank is a varied
Green at dawn in spring. The thought as a light goes
On in a window of the building opposite; the horror
Of the bewildered life, what’s happening there?
In the thought this will work itself out like Michael
Angelo’s Boboli caryatids; a dark garden anywhere
Out of this world with silver-clad hills and jade-like
Trees: let’s just say internal coherence but at arm’s
Length. January, three days’ lonely vigil:
Little parallel lines that never seem to meet;
The deep desire for a universe that is not a language.
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