My Human Disguise.
The summer is an empty hourglass
I tumble through like a clump of sand
That cannot, trying very hard, pass
Through the neck and softly land
At the bulbs’ bottom, top or bottom,
Depending on the hour of the turn.
The asphalts and red bee balms burn
And the sun is a single blazing atom.
The bell has been silent, raising hope
(It all depends on squares and magic
And the diminution of the tragic)
That someday someone will tug on its rope,
Awakening the prayed-for lightning storm
That once our angel promised to reform.