Keep your trust with him and do not go near

      The dunce of charity who seeks to hold you

      By your own want and tells his to physicians

      Leaving his gifts a noontide charm of dew

      Your hopeful orchard fields darken with fear

      Buttoning the shirt we have depraved with flowers

      Against the sudden cold rain

      We do not see the force that makes us fall

      Prey to the whining genius of the dark

      Hours stealing our casual garden the march

      Of our imagination to the lake and the arc

      The light builds there, and we must fall

      Victims to the petty erosions of the dark

      The picture of the beautiful lake:

      The secretive launch pressing our suspect horizon

      Someone loves you the green wave you float on

      You are our sensuous lady but exceedingly dull

      So what will you have now, your dominion

      You burn like the moon in the night for what

      Trembling leaf in a pond and for whose sake

      He would see currency in your lies and mark

      The coursing of your blood a plot

      Don’t you hear what the chariot says

      As it crushes the air we are excited

      To breathe Don’t you hear teenage songs

      From 1956 flowing around your knees like

      The surf we remember last summer afternoons

      When you press your lips softly on the

      Letter you send me or telephone and argue

      With me about inconsequential events of

      The air, why are you hearing only our voices

      Only the signature of the electric space

      We confine to chaperone us

      The pedestrian bridge over the highway and

      The moonlight; auto lights like an electric river

      Sound of the wheels like a stagnant pond

      Under the evening under the summer moon

      Did you hear the Chinese verses the tires

      Were saying, telling you the direction

      These words are taking which way over

      The strange map of our feelings. Our feelings.

      Our feelings. Our feelings Are we trapped

      In the speed of the mind’s careless radar

      Zone where I am the driver If I were the driver

      The airy car would run through villages

      Through dark and accident and rain

      Securing the award of my attentions

      To you, which is a prize I wd greedily covet

      And drive angrily to win year after year

      Don’t you hear the proud heart’s cylinders

      Facetiously singing

      The moon is rouge on the horizon’s foggy face

      To ask her for one dance, the dense

      Fog of the 2-step recorded music

      Coming to circle the womanly heart

      Of the night; goes through his head.

      How can it be that he is not the lover

      She has sought in her French books

      His regard is for her the etiquette of statues

      Another time he speaks to her in French

      Which is a voice so distant calm and grave

      And its inflections darling gauzy Sundays

      He invites her into the Bijou’s white frame

      Where the minutes admire the beautiful fan

      And her escort sleeping in the light

THE CONVENTION