But in the opaque dark of the body,
Where we find ourselves and our story,
Such as it is, the slow old blood does its work.
She unbuttons his shirt, lays her hands
Against his chest, feels
His heart utter its simple repetitious word.
It refers to her. It refers her to herself.
That’s what she’s doing here, that’s why her tongue
Moves itself in his mouth, that’s why the dark
It moves in refuses to lighten to the syllable
That rises blind in the body: name, name, name.
years of anger following
hours that float idly down —
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS