Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!
Summer-s stream won-t run for ever.
We can-t pump out the accordion-s roar
night after night, in a dusty fever.

I-ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies!
No wave will lift its hands to the stars.
They say - who believes? No face in the leaves,
no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.

Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.
It-s noon in the world. Where are your eyes?
See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,
fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.

Here, the city-s trolley-lines end.
Beyond there-s no rails, it-s the trees.
Beyond - it-s Sunday, breaking branches,
the glade running off, sliding on leaves.

Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,
-The world-s always like this-, says the wood.
So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,
So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.