but observe;although
once is never the beginning of
enough,is it(i do not pretend
to know the reason any more than.) But look:up-

raising,hoisting,a little
perhaps that and this,deftly
proppping on smallest hands
the slim hinging you
it’s five o’clock

and these(i notice)trees winterbrief surly old
gurgle a nonsense of sparrows,the cathedral
shudders blackening;
the sky is washed with tone

now for a moon
to squat in first darkness
—a little moon thinner than


than all the whys
which lurk
between your naked shoulderblades.—Here
comes a stout fellow in a blouse
just outside this window,touching the glass
boxes one by one with his magic
stick(in which a willing
bulb of flame bubbles)

here and here they explode
silently into crocuses of brightness. (That is enough
of life,for you. I understand. Once

a little downward,embrace me with your body’s suddenly
curving entire warm questions