1

From within the prismatic womb of a complicated verse, a ballad awaits its pearl-

we have made it only to the bedroom,

the velvet green,

I blow smoke rings

In the shape of

the weeping century.

If time were only kinder I would swing from her angular arms,

if we were children again, if we were-

‘Good day kind sir and what of the night? I’m on my way to a room where the violets never wither.’

Chicago, circa 1924.