On what day did the Seeker, that foul-shaped gangly
Figure, weep and belly-crawl toward me
Forward winding? In craven eaves, in parsley fields,
I wrinkled sleeves, running, running,
A bare-foot straw sock stuck fast and wide
While crows were nodding, nodding, nodding.
The mansion breaks the parsley skirting; my mouth
Is panting, low, unsightly. A butter cloud of moths
Were dancing, and caught my cheeks with tender tags
Of sickly salt-pan glister. With baked stone walls I
Pushed the tail-bone, and time was wailing fast before
Me, it scratched my back into a cup of clawing,
Chasing fingers.
He seeks me still in wooden boxing, under sweating
Hands are shaking; time atop my crush of raven
Swings a hefty, dullsome, tune. Knees were pulled far
Up and rounded, domed and white, and jade, and black,
Stuck and stinking fragrantly, the skiddish slums of slime
Betrayed me- sleeves were *****, hot, and green.
With backbone slinking down the body, the clock
Grows loud with muffled strumming. In front, the crack,
The door before me, small enough to wholesome hold
Me, blanks the mansion's putty light. Arms that longly *****
The run trail, scoop a crackle from the door frame;
Ones that pester, hound and perish
With longing, longing, longing.
