I tell you we are the shape of a word in the air
Uttered from silence behind us into silence
Far, far beyond, and now between two strokes
Of the word’s passing have become the word—
That jars on through the night;
and the stirred air
Deadens,
is still—
They lived that summer in a furnished flat
On the south side of Congress Street and no
Sun, but you could look into the branches
Of all those chestnut-trees, and then they had
A window-box, but the geraniums
Died leaving a little earth and the wind
Or somehow one June morning there was grass
Sprouting—
28
