w hen, on th e hill, over th e w a ter

w here she w ho used to sing,

w hen th e w a te r glowed,
b lack, gold, th e tid e
o u tw ard , a t evening

w hen hells cam e like bo ats

over th e oil-slicks, m ilkw eed
hulls

A nd a m an slum ped,
a tte n tio n le ss,
a g a in st p in k shingles

o sea city)

one loves only form ,

a n d form only comes
in to existence w hen
th e th in g is b o rn

b o rn of yourself, b o rn
of h a y an d c o tto n s tru ts ,
of street-p ick in g s, w harves, w eeds
yo u c a rry in, m y b ird

of a bone of a fish
of a straw , or will
of a color, of a bell
of yourself, to rn

love is n o t easy
b u t how shall you know ,
N ew E n g lan d , now
t h a t pejorocracy is here, how

34

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