Issue 19, Summer 1958
I am custodian of close things.
Even winter trees have blurred
To leaf, and faces come upon me
Suddenly. I am a startled man
To half the town, and half my yard
Is blunderland. First, I lost
The violets, then the grass,
And now, the red and wren white fence.
Farewell, the bright decay of oak,
The crewcut water, the black assizes
Of the night. Farewell, the visual.