Letras
It has become that time of evening
when people sit on their porches
rocking gently and talking gently
and watching the street
and the standing up into their sphere
of possession of the trees,
of birds' hung havens, hangars.
People go by; things go by.
A horse, drawing a buggy,
breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt:
a loud auto: a quiet auto:
People in pairs, not in a hurry,
scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body,
talking casually,
the taste hovering over them of vanilla,
strawberry, pasteboard, and starched milk,
the image upon them of lovers and horsement,
Squared with clowns in hueless amber.
A streetcar raising into iron moan;
stopping;
belling and starting; stertorous;
rousing and raising again
its iron increasing moan
and swimming its gold windows and straw seats
on past and past and past
the bleak spark crackling and cursing above it
like a small malignant spirit
set to dog its tracks;
the iron whine rises on rising speed;
still risen, faints; halts;
the faint stinging bell;
rises again, still fainter;
fainting, lifting lifts,
faints foregone;
forgotten.
Now is the night one blue dew;
my father has drained,
he has coiled the hose.
Low on the length of lawns,
a frailing of fire who breathes.
Parents on porches:
rock and rock.
From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces.
The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air
at once enchants my eardrums.
On the rough wet grass
of the backyard
my father and mother have spread quilts
We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, m
y aunt,
and I too am lying there.
They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet,