Волны

           Ihaveheardthreadsbrokenandknotstiedandthequietstitchingofwhitecambricgoingonandononthekneesofawoman.Whyask,likeLouis,forareason,orflylikeRhodatosomefargroveandparttheleavesofthelaurelsandlookforstatues?Theysaythatonemustbeatone’swingsagainstthestorminthebeliefthatbeyondthiswelterthesunshines;thesunfallssheerintopoolsthatarefledgedwithwillows.(HereitisNovember;thepoorholdoutmatchboxesinwind-bittenfingers.)Theysaytruthistobefoundthereentire,andvirtue,thatshufflesalonghere,downblindalleys,istobehadthereperfect.Rhodaflieswithherneckoutstretchedandblindfanaticeyes,pastus.Louis,nowsoopulent,goestohisatticwindowamongtheblisteredroofsandgazeswhereshehasvanished,butmustsitdowninhisofficeamongthetypewritersandthetelephoneandworkitalloutforourinstruction,forourregeneration,andthereformofanunbornworld.

           ’Butnowinthisroom,whichIenterwithoutknocking,thingsaresaidasiftheyhadbeenwritten.Igotothebookcase.IfIchoose,Ireadhalfapageofanything.Ineednotspeak.ButIlisten.Iammarvellouslyonthealert.Certainly,onecannotreadthispoemwithouteffort.Thepageisoftencorruptandmud-stained,andtornandstucktogetherwithfadedleaves,withscrapsofverbenaorgeranium.Toreadthispoemonemusthavemyriadeyes,likeoneofthoselampsthatturnonslabsofracingwateratmidnightintheAtlantic,whenperhapsonlyasprayofseaweedpricksthesurface,orsuddenlythewavesgapeandupshouldersamonster.