— Al Nightingale
*  *  *
I’m walking in the street of evening ships,
About slow Rabelais, and about the biding
Of your Pantagruels and Gargantuas,
In the dim haze in meditation deep.

I’m walking in the street of evening kings,
Reproaching, prosecutory and gnarled,
So as on palms, which are already ardent,
To break the bread of many bitter things.

*  *  *
Do you recall, behind the crane, our mountains
And, like a bearded deuce in waking life,
Against the pancake house, in his urgence
Onto his pitchfork grabbing grass, some guy.

There we could see that nature’s random draw,
When in three jumps, not for a moment idle,
From under wheels his little colt withdrawing,
He caught the big old mare by her bridle.

They grazed together, chomping nearby…
And how he burned with his black eyes all over
The sidewalk with the strolling passers-by,
That thrust into his horses’ teeth their clover!

*  *  *
There’s the poster’s shadow on the wall,
Where hedge-born rats are rustling in the hole,
Where, in the silver country, blue trees, hale
Under skyscrapers’ ogee roofs-umbrellas,
And where you are sitting, frosty, pale,
And feeling in yourself like Cinderella,
That came down from the sky to tell her tale,
Saying, ”Oh, how I would like to eat some kale!”

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