— 24 —
Sold to them men knock blindly together
splitting their heads open
That is why boxing matches and
Chinese poems are the same—That is why
Hartley praises Miss Wirt
There is nothing in the twist
of the wind but—dashes of cold rain
It is one with submarine vistas
purple and black fish turning
among undulant seaweed—
Black wind, I have poured my heart out
to you until I am sick of it—
Now I run my hand over you feeling
the play of your body—the quiver
of its strength—
The grief of the bowmen of Shu
moves nearer—There is
an approach with difficulty from
the dead—the winter casing of grief
How easy to slip
into the old mode, how hard to
cling firmly to the advance—
