T he flowers are rav in e d

b y bees, th e fru it blossom s

are th ro w n to th e ground, th e w ind

th e ra in forces e v ery th in g . N oise—

even th e n ig h t is d ru m m ed
b y w hippoorw ills, an d we get

as busy, we plow , we m ove,

we b re a k out, we love. T he secret

w hich got lo st n e ith e r hides

n or reveals itself, it show s fo rth

to k en s. A nd we ru sh
to c atc h up. T he b o d y

w hips th e soul. In its g re a t desire

it dem ands th e elixir

In th e ro a r of spring,
tra n s m u ta tio n s. E n v y

drags herself off. T he fa u lt of th e b o d y an d th e soul

— t h a t th e y are n o t one—

th e m a tu tin a l cock clangs

an d singleness: we salu te you

season of no bungling

A rcheologist of m o rn in g ; G rossm an 1973

46

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