Easter Hymn

TWO POEMS

EASTER HYMN

Again it has come-hush old sheep-with cold, with

all the hyacinths steeping their smells to a broth

of bath-massage-powder flavor, and slack-gay

faces of men dry-pointing holily the myth...

Here April is banging, there at the curb all thought

swept on a matter of wind. Listen, from his floor

Borovansky pounds the piano key that is the bell

to a virgin of melons, trills the sound away,

repeats; velvet are his thoughts, velvetly sure

his fingers' hammering, leaving each pause demurely

poised like the mamba between his thighs, hidden but

fey and wary. Hush old sheep, your lamb's in the well

that's filling from the rains. Hush, its eyes are shut

and it's mouth has gone silent on all evil surely.

Sail evenly song, sail out to the meekly proud.

Over this all the weather hangs (as recompense,

as banquet and as pall) which we have drawn around

us as a curtain since the day when even very loud

bellings of towers droned in our hearts no sense,

but colds and cowerings. Convenient weather has hung

between

the thing once said, the others almost shouted, so long,

Let it remain the interim we'll destroy when dull ground