Lean forward. Punch the steersman behind the ear. Twirl the wheel! Over the edge! Screams! Crash! The end. I sit above my head-- a little removed--or a thin wash of rain on the roadway --I am never afraid when he is driving,-- interposes new direction, rides us sidewise, unforseen into the ditch! All threads cut! Death! Black. The end. The very end-- I would sit separate weighing a small red handful: the dirt of these parts, sliding mists sheeting the alders against the touch of fingers creeping to mine. All stuff of the blind emotions. But--stirred, the eye seizes for the first time--The eye awake!-- anything, a dirt bank with green stars of scrawny weed flattened upon it under a weight of air--For the first time!-- or a yawning depth: Big! Swim around in it, through it-- all directions and find vitreous seawater stuff-- God how I love you!--or, as I say, a plunge into the ditch. The end. I sit examining my red handful. Balancing --this--in and out--agh. Love you? It's a fire in the blood, willy-nilly! It's the sun coming up in the morning. Ha, but it's the grey moon too, already up in the morning. You are slow. Men are not friends where it concerns a woman? Fighters. Playfellows. White round thighs! Youth! Sighs--! It's the fillip of novelty. It's-- Mountains. Elephants humping along against the sky--indifferent to light withdrawing its tattered shreds, worn out with embraces. It's the fillip of novelty. It's a fire in the blood. Oh get a flannel shirt, white flannel or pongee. You'd look so well! I married you because I liked your nose. I wanted you! I wanted you in spite of all they'd say-- Rain and light, mountain and rain, rain and river. Will you love me always? --A car overturned and two crushed bodies under it.--Always! Always! And the white moon already up. White. Clean. All the colors. A good head, backed by the eye--awake! backed by the emotions--blind-- River and mountain, light and rain--or rain, rock, light, trees--divided: rain-light counter rocks-trees or trees counter rain-light-rocks or-- Myriads of counter processions crossing and recrossing, regaining the advantage, buying here, selling there --You are sold cheap everywhere in town!-- lingering, touching fingers, withdrawing gathering forces into blares, hummocks, peaks and rivers--river meeting rock --I wish that you were lying there dead and I sitting here beside you.-- It's the grey moon--over and over. It's the clay of these parts. THE DESOLATE FIELD Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey, and-- In the tall, dried grasses a goat stirs with nozzle searching the ground. --my head is in the air but who am I...? And amazed my heart leaps at the thought of love vast and grey yearning silently over me. WILLOW POEM