I

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined—just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

II

A car’ s backfire
rifles the ear

with skeleton clatter,
the crowd’ s walla walla

draws near, caterwaul
evaporating in thin air.

Silence is dead.
(Long live silence.)

Let’ s observe a moment
of it, call it what it’ s not:

splatter of rain
that can’ t soothe

the window’ s pane,
dog barking

up the wrong tree.
Which tree, which air

apparent is there to hear
a word at its worth?

Hammer that drums
its water-logged warning

against the side
of the submarine:

I am a feather on the bright sky
I am the blue horse that runs in the plain
I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water
I am the shadow that follows a child
I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows
I am an eagle playing with the wind
I am a cluster of bright beads
I am the farthest star
I am the cold of dawn
I am the roaring of the rain
I am the glitter on the crust of the snow
I am the long track of the moon in a lake
I am a flame of four colors
I am a deer standing away in the dusk

I suppose so.
I was living in an attic in Philadelphia
It became very hot in the summer and so I stayed in the
bars. I didn’ t have any money and so with what was almost left
I put a small ad in the paper and said I was a writer
looking for work...
which was a god damned lie; I was a writer
looking for a little time and a little food and some
attic rent.
a couple days later when I finally came home
from somewhere
the landlady said, there was somebody looking for
you. and I said,