In the Village

From the Country to the City

       The long, long legs,
league-boots of land, that carry the city nowhere,
      nowhere; the lines
that we drive on (satin-stripes on harlequin's
      trousers, tights);
his tough trunk dressed in tatters, scribbled over with
      nonsensical signs;
his shadowy, tall dunce-cap; and, best of all his
      shows and sights,
his brain appears, throned in "fantastic triumph,"
      and shines through his hat
with jeweled works at work at intermeshing crowns,
      lamé with lights.
As we approach, wickedest clown, your heart and head
      we can see that
glittering arrangement of your brain consists, now,
      of mermaid-like,
seated, ravishing sirens, each waving her hand-mirror;
      and we start at
series of slight disturbances up in the telephone wires
      on the turnpike.
Flocks of short, shining wires seem to be flying sidewise.
       Are they birds?
They flash again. No. They are vibrations of the tuning-fork
       you hold and strike
against the mirror-frames, then draw for miles, your dreams,
        out countrywards.
We bring a message from the long black length of body:
       “Subside,” it begs and begs.