Scorching midday is the time
In one of the best economies
I see a moving dream, —
History in a continuous languor.
Cool loaded revolver
basements, and thick salute
Nitrate vaults give
Guests when entering from outside at noon.
The window w of the rooms in the house
I do not see any with any party
Traces of familiar life, Besides
Water and sky is the time.
Enough desired spaciousness,
I am torn from the lower rooms there.
In vain! For purple farm,
Under the skylights services
Hundred miles in the black silence of
Leaves white ribbon wilderness.
Hundred miles westward busy
strawberry foam, and amber
That foam behind him pulls
Deep spoon screw shaft.
And there, with the remnants in an embrace,
With bubbling sand bottom,
As upward supernatant strawberries,
Round whole wave.
