August 12, 1964 The sake-shop hisses with its pleasures, all boiled up. Here the young are speaking of virility and all the hidden forms. Language on the window is backwards here, and inside the glass the small cries or clicks of things might be taken as the spirits of the flowers, in the Garden of the Ungathered . . . There is the blur of the child, dropping from the tree. Here is a black-haired man with a black-haired man. There are the two sticks and a cup in Spring. Here is a sake-burned mouth and the account of the lost cranes. Here is a young bride's half-turned face, which is turning, as it must, to be turned towards me.
|The East Village Poetry Web