A light moves on the north sky line.
Light on the foam, breathed on by
zephyrs, & a world is covered with jade.
Dig well & drink of the water. I would
put it in better order than this is. Not
that it were natural opposite, but only
twisteth out of natural measure. Wild
geese swoop to the sand-bar, heaping
the pyre with goods for sacrifice. Then
comes a catalogue, disjunct in mid
darkness, & all the time, there were
people going in front of the Moscow
station. A swollen magpie in a fitful
sun entered the quiet air, the new sky.
Smoke hangs on the stream, ply
over ply, thin glitter of water;
moves like a worm, in the crowd.
The valley is thick with leaves,
with a black border half an inch
or more deep, with leaves, the trees.
There was a man there talking,
working up to a climax. Holding
his power even though the gondolas
cost too much, that year. A black
cock crows in the sea-foam. Moves
like a worm. The camel drivers
sit in the turn of the stairs.
Some cook, some do not cook.
Lines from The Cantos
Mark Young‘s most recent book is random salamanders, a Wanton Text Production.