For Emily Wilson

Such a long time as the wave idling gathers lofts and presses forward into the curvature of the height before one realizes that the tension completes itself with a fall through air, disorganization the prelude to the meandering of another gather and hurl, the necessary: ah, what can one make to absorb the astonishment: you should have seen me the merchant at market this morning: the people ogled me with severe goggles: maids, buying in manners and measures beyond themselves, stared into my goods and then grew horror-eyed: wives still as distant from day as a carrot from dinner took the misconnection sagely, a usual patience: peashells, I said, long silky peashells: cobs, I said, long cobs: husks and shucks, I said: one concerned person pointed out that my whole economy was wrong; yes, I said, but I have nothing else to sell: and I said to her, won't you appreciate the silky beds where seeds have lain: she had not come to that: and how about this residence all the grains have left: won't you buy it and think about it: not for dinner, she said: rinds, I cried, rinds and peelings: there was some interest in those, as for a marmalade, but no one willing, finally, to do the preparations: absurd, one woman shouted, and then I grew serious: can you do with that: but she was off before we fully met: you should have seen me the merchant at market this morning: will bankruptcy make a go of it: will the leavings be left only: the wave turns over and does not rise again, that wave.