Issue 37, Spring 1966
Red-faced and romping in the wind
I too am reading the technical journals, but
Keeping Christmas-safe each city block
With tall-pin. My angels are losing patience,
Never win. Except at night. Then
I would like a silken thread
Tied round the solid blooming winter.
Trees stand stark-naked guarding bridal paths;
The cooling wind keeps blowing, and
There is a faint chance in geometric boxes!
It doesn’t matter, though, to show he is
Your champion. Days are nursed on science fiction
And you tremble at the boots upon the earth
As my strength and I walk out and look for you.