Aren’t there bigger things to talk about
Than a window in Greenwich Village
And hyacinths sprouting
Like little puce poems out of a sick soul?
Some cosmic hearsay—
As to whom—it can’t be Mars! put the moon—that way….
Or what winds do to canyons
Under the tall stars…
How that old roué, Neptune,
Cranes over his bald-head moons
At the twinkling heel of a sky-scraper.
Leave a Reply