from Discrete Series: "Town, a town..."

Town, a town, But location Over which the sun as it comes to it; Which cools, houses and lamp-posts, during the night, with the roads— Inhabited partly by those Who have been born here, Houses built—. From a train one sees him in the morning, his morning; Him in the afternoon, straightening— People everywhere, time and the work pauseless: One moves between reading and re-reading, The shape is a moment. From a crowd a white powdered face, Eyes and mouth making three— Awaited—locally—a date. * Near your eyes— Love at the pelvis Reaches the generic, gratuitous (Your eyes like snail-tracks) Parallel emotions, We slide in separate hard grooves Bowstrings to bent loins, Self moving Moon, mid-air. * Fragonard, Your spiral women By a fountain ‘1732’ Your picture lasts thru us its air Thick with succession of civilizations; And the women. * No interval of manner Your body in the sun. You? A solid, this that the dress insisted, Your face unaccented, your mouth a mouth? Practical knees: It is you who truly Excel the vegetable, The fitting of grasses—more bare than that. Pointedly bent, your elbow on a car-edge Incognito as summer Among mechanics. * ‘O city ladies’ Your coats wrapped, Your hips a possession Your shoes arched Your walk is sharp Your breasts Pertain to lingerie The fields are road-sides, Rooms outlast you. * Bad times: The cars pass By the elevated posts And the movie sign. A man sells post-cards. * It brightens up into the branches And against the same buildings A morning: His job is as regular.