  Must I see a gutter In which the hurried machination Of water carries bits of apple peeling To some profound, obscure intelligence? And if the gutter is to me Merely the masterful travel of brown Speeding with odds and ends of red, To lend importance to a dream, Will this belief decrease my size When death reproves my inefficient limbs? I walk upon a street Where trite deceptions glide Ceaselessly. Upon this street the spasmodic revolt Of color refuses to join The orderly, substantial lie. Scattered anarchists of color, Thin and incorrupt, Contend against the ponderous devices Of lust for flesh and gold. With a spiritual savageness Colors bring their lucid treason The knitted green of this girl’s sweater Is a badge releasing A cool republic of desire Unrelated to earth. Her famished opaque face Feeds on sleek anticipations— Unconscious incongruity. Color alone is real, Waving perpetually Over the graves of thought and emotion. From the vaster shapes of color Small and involved broods of thought and emotion Are born to scorn their distant mothers. The ruffian dream recedes Over a span of twenty thousand years, And color, awake and supreme, Waits to be once more divided By another nightmare dream. If men could see this they might kneel Upon this sidewalk and observe The importance of apple-peelings Testing their spirals of red Against the thick, brown stream. |
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