I see black beetles burrowing through the grass.
Dewdrops to them are centuries.
I see stars in their eyes.
I see them try to rise above themselves.
I see the strain bend down the blade.
I see her faltering, old, as she moves
the broom across the porch.
I see her stop to look around her.
I see a created sun walk on her face.
I see that she is great, important down to every nostril
I see difficulties, thick walls with real mortar
covering the outsides of the doors.
I see that nothing is enough.
I see that we have wasted everything.
I see that we are costly, not the finest glory.
I see cats along fences, none of them
eager, happy, according to their expressions.
I see one arch up his back.  Clouds
move across the sun: they are happy enough for now.
I see them walking, taken by the hand.
(Laura Jensen forgot to put her name and the date on hers.)

Waiting for the Bus Outside the House of Bedlam

I see rainbows forming on the street,
drunks and cigarette stubs turning brown.
I see a lady with all her edges down.
(She nods at me, fails to recover her nod.)
I see windows brighten, then turn bloody.
I see the sign above a bar go nervous,
see the door open and bubbles of girls float out.
(The lady doesn't approve and flaps her hat.)
I see a guard-house with the guard inside.
I see its light fall out and stick close
to the underside of leaves.
(The lady's edges have turned yellow)
I see no bus with its load of clams,
no girls laughing foam off beer.
I see no crowds knocking at St. Eve's.
(The lady and I bare wrists and compare times.)
I see a man, his beard, and his greatcoat.
I see a cigarette rise to his lips,
his face above the rim of match-light.
"The rain continues", he says, "The rain continues."

January 11, 1971