This is newness: every little tawdryObstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar, Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only youDon't know what to make of the sudden slippiness, The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant. There's no getting up it by the words you know. No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe. We have only come to look. You are too newTo want the world in a glass hat.
I Am VerticalBut I would rather be horizontal.I am not a tree with my root in the soilSucking up minerals and motherly loveSo that each March I may gleam into leaf, Nor am I the beauty of a garden bedAttracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted, Unknowing I must soon unpetal. Compared with me, a tree is immortalAnd a flower-head not tall, but more startling, And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring. Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars, The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odors.I walk among them, but none of them are noticing. Sometimes I think that when I am sleepingI must most perfectly resemble them--Thoughts gone dim. It is more natural to me, lying down. Then the sky and I are in open conversation, And I shall be useful when I lie down finally: The the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.