To the presidency,
sought after revered and loved,
demanding deep when I awoke
when peaceful thoughts and thoughts of things provoked,
beset, however, wasted.
I saw an emblem of resistance,
something emblematic of Louie’s France, in you,
in Venice on the public beat,
on the keel held out over the bow.
In the iron eagles of my velveteen,
the dimful, fearful of engagement,
the life of man in things.
What is but from winters of nonuse,
the valves of trumpets opening.
For the morning that lasts the afternoon.
For both the hunter and the hour that’s suffered.
A reverent, noble window patching,
deleaded and of various laters,
enduring sense of greatness on the man.
Here and children of the head,
oh, but the makings of life.
A snow mound vertically set,
measures out the simple leader,
past deep water measured and owed.
Love the length an evening meal
and love again the screen door closed.
The winter, utmost foremost.
The gruesome ranks of the city hid.
But to think the world of some rough form,
not to scratch, nor dent, but smoothen.