Enough Rope/August
August
WHEN my eyes are weeds,And my lips are petals, spinningDown the wind that has beginningWhere the crumpled beeches startIn a fringe of salty reeds;When my arms are elder-bushes,And the rangy lilac pushesUpward, upward through my heart;
Summer, do your worst!Light your tinsel moon, and call onYour performing stars to fall onHeadlong through your paper sky;Nevermore shall I be cursedBy a flushed and amorous slattern,With her dusty laces’ patternTrailing, as she straggles by.