The wounds of weather recall us to them:
wet stones, wet benches, a wet wind.
The wedding and roster are the better day, though
your babes would be born as soon as now
alongside the ill and self-starved. In these wards
some know a hope which wills into existence itself.
Their season bears the semblance of leaves, as if they
with their leaves, could recall which wind
in landing, did not end. Into melodies each malady
would amend itself—the necessity of a distance
not ceasing to oppress just because man survives
or because “man has turned backwards
against man himself.” The pool, empty with water,
reveals on its rim leaves clung like children, and
having travelled so far, lightening does not midway

change its mind, though I am bound to this afternoon and
to think it could, for in falling slowly it would achieve a
certain crudeness with which man might think it touchable
and say of it I have felt through it with my hand so I am
still with hands which may appear to you as touchable.
When will that which decides us human
hold to its face the rain, its ornament?
The Little carved Vintur regards his runny nose,
thinks us neither “all too” nor “only that.”