An idea I had and talked about

Became the things I do.

The poem of these things takes them apart,

And I tremble. Sparse winter, less vulnerable

Than deflated summer, the nests of words.

Some of the tribes believe the spirit

Is immanent in a person’s nail-parings.

They gather up their dead swiftly,

At sundown. And this will be

Some forgotten day three years ago:

Startling evidence of light after death

Another person. The yellow-brick and masonry

Wall, deeper, duller all afternoon

And a voice waltzing, fabricating works

Of sentimental gadgetry—messes he’d cook up.

And the little hotel looked all right

And well-lit, in the dark, on the flat

Beach behind the breakers, stiff, harmless.

And you are amazed that so much flimsy stuff

Stays erect, trapped in our mummery.