For Hedda

Morning meets memory

and kills it. We all know

much forgetfulness at this hour:

piety is put out like stars.

This much man has told

in his loving: daylight is the

great destroyer of evening words.

(Yet I know that sleep is lived through

and comes again as real: the long night

foretells a strange morning fidelity . . .)

CENTRIFUGAL

Birds in clusters sweep the sky: