17. 6. 77
this wet morning, the garden filled
with needles casually,
deliberately filled needlesharp
shaking, like one of those screens
which lately sculptors were making,
then torn, and cried in the tearing
like some oldfashioned silk piece
the garden is
full of music, the room with a rain
is allegro, adagio, allegro again.
Why should I think of tearing silk?
More easy, plain
fact of change with interchange:
an orchestra speaks and fall answers
one to another, now both together
yet no plain fact:
nor much concealed.
I write you this, because loving.
You go elsewhere
through this same rain
being a music’s likeness moving
from and around its delight