West Wind, VI.

When the sun goes down
the roses
fling off their red dresses
and put on their black dresses

the wind is coming
over the sandy streets
of the town called moonlight

with his long arms
with his silver mouth
his hands

humorous at first
then serious
then crazy

touching their faces their dark petals
until they begin rising and falling:
the honeyed seizures.

All day they have been busy being roses
gazing responsible over the sand
into the sky into the blue ocean

so now why not
a little comfort
a little rippling pleasure.

You there, puddled in lamplight at your midnight desk—
you there, rewriting nature
so anyone can understand it—

what will you say about the roses—
their sighing, their tossing—
and the want of the heart,

and the trill of the heart,
and the burning mouth
of the wind?