The way of life is wonderful; it is by abandonment. —EMERSON, “CIRCLES” BIRD (THOREAU) 1. The great stalks are alert, their shambles piled: maybe another parade. An evident gray, a slow march and legions rudderless; an ordinary flow. These none of them quite real, none present, like mischief in a dream: the blue garment, the rusty blade. Came late or have you come late or are you, you are late then on into wakened sobriety’s itch. The great stalks move slightly. They press back. Waiting folds upward into a shape to be seen later, or not seen, not now, not later. Take hold of this garment, this was said. The thrust of these injunctions. Take hold of the blade. 2. Stepping man is stiff in the shade. Let him be, or chop him down. At the far side of the miserable hill an orchestra is rehearsing for the factory’s ball. As usual, a train is near, but there are no feet. The wheels peel off into global dust and there is flesh, naked flesh, exposed to it.
