Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap! br Summer’s stream won’t run for ever. br We can’t pump out the accordion’s roar br night after night, in a dusty fever. br br I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies! br No wave will lift its hands to the stars. br They say – who believes? No face in the leaves, br no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts. br br Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming. br It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes? br See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething, br fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines. br br Here, the city’s trolley-lines end. br Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees. br Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches, br the glade running off, sliding on leaves. br br Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking, br ‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood. br So the copse planned it, the clearing was told, br So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.