Issue 30, Summer-Fall 1963
Moving across the light, on agitated hips.
She hurries away bread crusts and grape stones
And glances in mid-talk, as if from fear,
At the irreproachable sea. Lanes frown away
Through the gaps in the hills she is looking at now
In the other window; but the floor throws up
Immediately, there, fresh patterns of her hands
And hair quite undismayed. So why is afternoon's
Not beginning easily? Is the room
Not set correctly for the thing to come?
Or did we break some subject much too soon?