Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now—— The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled¸ like Blake's. Who exhibits
The birthmarks that are his trademark—— The scald scar of water, The **** Verdigris of the condor. I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet. He tells me how badly I photograph. He tells me how sweet The babies look in their hospital Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck Then the flutings of their Ionian Death-gowns. Then two little feet. He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that His hair long and plausive ******* ******* a glitter He wants to be loved.
I do not stir. The frost makes a flower, The dew makes a star, The dead bell, The dead bell.
