Issue 29, Winter-Spring 1963
Go lift that pane of moonlight from the floor
And tell Nicotiana to stop
Screaming with her perfume.
The Four O’clocks too. They’re drunk with dew.
I gotta date with a hoot owl,
I gotta date with a whoo.
Wait for the bird. By the moon-soaked wall.
By the insect’s hairy legs.
Wait for that green funeral
Of the cricket in a pall
And for the knell that tolls a moth.
A vast robin as well
Of the invisible wound that kills a crow.
Wait till the master of all vermin,