Where shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one With the earthy tastes I require: The burrowing pride that rises Subtly as on a bush in May. Where are you this day— You, my seven-year locusts With cased wings? Ah, my beauties, how I long! That harvest That shall be your advent— Thrusting up through the grass, Up under the weeds, Answering me— That shall be satisfying! The light shall leap and snap That day as with a million lashes! Oh,
I have you! Yes, you are about me in a sense, Playing under the blue pools That are my windows. But they shut you out still There in the half light— For the simple truth is That though I see you clear enough … You are not there. It is not that—it is you, You I want, my companions! God! if I could only fathom The guts of shadows!— You to come with me Poking into negro houses With their gloom and smell! In among children Leaping around a dead dog! Mimicking Onto the lawns of the rich! You! To go with me a-tip-toe Head down under heaven, Nostrils lipping the wind!
