SUB TERRA

Where shall I find you,

you my grotesque fellows

that I seek everywhere

to make up my band?

None, not one

with the earthy tastes I require;

the burrowing pride that rises

subtly as on a bush in May.

Where are you this day,

you my seven year locusts

with cased wings?

Ah my beauties how I long — !

That harvest

that shall be your advent —

thrusting up through the grass,

up under the weeds

answering me,

that shall be satisfying!

The light shall leap and snap

that day as with a million lashes!

Oh, I have you; yes

you are about me in a sense:

playing under the blue pools

that are my windows, —

but they shut you out still,

there in the half light.

For the simple truth is

that though I see you clear enough

you are not there!

It is not that — it is you,

you I want!

— God, if I could fathom

the guts of shadows!

You to come with me

poking into negro houses

with their gloom and smell!

In among children

leaping around a dead dog!

Mimicking

onto the lawns of the rich!

You!

to go with me a-tip-toe,

head down under heaven,

nostrils lipping the wind!