Weldon Kees

September was when it began. Locusts dying in the fields; our dogs Silent, moving like shadows on a wall; And strange worms crawling; flies of a kind We had never seen before; huge vineyard moths; Badgers and snakes, abandoning Their holes in the field; the fruit gone rotten; Queer fungi sprouting; the fields and woods Covered with spiderwebs; black vapors Rising from the earth - all these, And more began that fall. Ravens flew round The hospital in pairs. Where there was water, We could hear the sound of beating clothes All through the night. We could not count All the miscarriages, the quarrels, the jealousies. And one day in a field I saw A swarm of frogs, swollen and hideous, Hundreds upon hundreds, sitting on each other, Huddled together, silent, ominous, And heard the sound of rushing wind.

The day the fat woman In the bright blue bathing suit Walked into the water and died, I thought about the human Condition. Pieces of old fruit Came in and were left by the tide. What I thought about the human Condition was this: old fruit Comes in and is left, and dries In the sun. Another fat woman In a dull green bathing suit Dives into the water and dies. The pulmotors glisten. It is noon. We dry and die in the sun While the seascape arranges old fruit, Coming in and the tide, glistening At noon. A woman, moderately stout, In a nondescript bathing suit, Swims to a pier. A tall woman Steps toward the sea. One thinks about the human Condition. The tide goes in and goes out.

Robinson at cards at the Algonquin; a thin Blue light comes down once more outside the blinds. Gray men in overcoats are ghosts blown past the door. The taxis streak the avenues with yellow, orange, and red. This is Grand Central, Mr. Robinson. Robinson on a roof above the Heights; the boats Mourn like the lost. Water is slate, far down. Through sounds of ice cubes dropped in glass, an osteopath, Dressed for the links, describes an old Intourist tour. —Here’s where old Gibbons jumped from, Robinson. Robinson walking in the Park, admiring the elephant. Robinson buying the Tribune, Robinson buying the Times. Robinson Saying, “Hello. Yes, this is Robinson. Sunday At five? I’d love to. Pretty well. And you?” Robinson alone at Longchamps, staring at the wall. Robinson afraid, drunk, sobbing Robinson In bed with a Mrs. Morse. Robinson at home; Decisions: Toynbee or luminol? Where the sun Shines, Robinson in flowered trunks, eyes toward The breakers. Where the night ends, Robinson in East Side bars. Robinson in Glen plaid jacket, Scotch-grain shoes, Black four-in-hand and oxford button-down, The jeweled and silent watch that winds itself, the brief- Case, covert topcoat, clothes for spring, all covering His sad and usual heart, dry as a winter leaf.