Too Fixed A Sense Erases Your Art In Its Faint Traces

A Cento

I had not taught you then the alphabet of flowers;
and all between the margin and the mountains
you lounged like a boy of the South
unshaven, with a pocket full of currents.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
in every tiny grain
with rocks, and stones, and trees
toward that timeless clarity of the last and inland sea --
The air thrills with the hum of insects,
fountains mingle with the river --

that some strange day will either the quiet catch
ponderous upon my senses a whole moon,
or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
But probably the music had more to do with it, and
you kissed me awake and nobody was sorry.

The water never formed to mind or voice;
your hands lie open in the long fresh grass.