Love, Death, Time, Weather

so’s your Englishman -
O go-for-a-sailor as it’s peace-time,
And shatter the context of the blue-red-white.
Say, do they touch at Colon, do they fetch up in the Toulon Darse?
They do, they swing about - and it’s up to you.
After so many other afters is there no now?

But I don’t think the Poste Restante
Changes our inner geographies nor yet heals hearts,
Much, nor yet do time’s heels
Properly leaden heart’s spring buds under, nor now nor finally.
Man, your brief uncoiled ache flips back into place like a curl.
- Three, four... will my love come?
Late late, on morning’s wings
A-mourning what’s got, not held.
What’s held?
That hand on the bed-cover, that’s surely a finality,
In visible focus, punkt -
Held, or for later? (such things have been.)

Had I no love I’d a-many,
I’m wrongly angrooved -
Eve and I of myself, how did I come to live in this place,?
Shifting zones of the centre!

(But the north-wings calmy nebulate round the Philippine rice-gods -
This stamp to what collector?)

(1929)