Ralegh’s Prizes

And Summer turns her head with its dark tangle All the way toward us; and the trees are heavy, With little sprays of limp green maple and linden Adhering after a rainstorm to the sidewalk Where yellow pollen dries in pools and runnels. Along the oceanfront, pink neon at dusk: The long, late dusk, a light wind from the water Lifting a girl’s hair forward against her cheek And swaying a chain of bulbs. In luminous booths, The bright, traditional wheel is on its ratchet, And ticking gaily at its little pawl; And the surf revolves; and passing cars and people, Their brilliant colors—all strange and hopeful as Ralegh’s Trophies: the balsam, the prizes of untried virtue, Bananas and armadillos that a Captain Carries his Monarch from another world.