at dusk
just when
the Light is filled with birds
seriously
i begin
to climb the best hill,
driven by black wine.
a village does not move behind
my eye
the windmills are
silent
their flattened arms
complain steadily against the west
one Clock dimly cries
nine,i stride among the vines
(my heart pursues
against the little moon
a here and there lark
who;rises,
and;droops
as if upon a thread invisible)
A graveyard dreams through its
cluttered and brittle emblems,or
a field(and 1 pause among
the smell of minute mown lives)oh
my spirit you
tumble
climb
and mightily fatally
i remark how through deep lifted
fields Oxen distinctly move,a
yellowandbluish cat(perched why
Curvingly at this)window;yes