Black woods behind the old house,
In front a sloping field of oats;
Above a cloud curves in soft sky
like a silver ball, centered
against the cloud, beating with
Severe, painful clarity...,

The wing of the wounded swan
Below on the old wooden balcony
A young man with white hair
his face the enigma of time

like a portrait in an old medallion
he narrows the oblique eyes
Warmed by the light Wolcott sun
hammered by the heavy light sun

Hammered ivy the storms
poet who writes the hearts dialogue
behind the house the woods grow into night
And wild oats by crazed in dream...

Unknown until this time,
He has become a knowledge of the heart