Page 423

REVOLUTION BY DISSATISFACTION
The rain makes blackish mist where Mozart stood.
We are all of us rushing
like dwarf antelopes in long streaming herds,
or hair flying behind the skidding racer....
A room of retired bombers on a Pacific island
the frozen ground scattered with chicken heads
and the violet crystals left behind in the footprints of the Saviour....
Who are the people who live in these huts?
Abandoned children left
in foster homes, hearts beating desperately like ends of canvas,
anguish, women turning away in tears. ...
I see men whose arms have turned into axes, chopping at their ankles,
blood spurting up .
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The grocer gets tired of people, his feathers clog with oil,
and he drowns in the river. There is something frightening
in the small hair along the necks of men in churches:
the grief of those shut out from the castle
as night comes, and the countryside full of brutal knights
on big kneed horses . . .
A bitterness ascends from the Gulf, and fights its way
up the Mississippi;
the low of vanishing trains.
Doors close inside the brain.
Men fall into the arms of big-eyed women exhausted
who play at night with dolls.
Tiny bits of dust ignored in Gansevoort Street
marks of ash on foreheads borne through subway cars
everyone feels a grief when he sees
the plane disappearing behind trees
and the long expanses of landing strips alone in the night.