The Window

She looks out in the blue morningand sees a whole wonderful worldshe looks out in the morningand sees a whole worldshe leans out of the windowand this is what she seesa wet rose singing to the sunwith a chorus of red beesshe leans out of the windowand laughs for the window is highshe is in it like a bird on a perchand they scoop the blue skyshe and the window scoopingthe morning as if it were airscooping a green wave of leavesabove a stone stairand an urn hung with leaden garlandsand girls holding hands in a ringand raindrops on an iron railingshining like a harp stringan old man draws with his ferrulein wet sand a map of Spainthe marble soldier on his pedestaldraws a stiff diagram of painbut the walls around her tremblewith the speed of the earth the floorcurves to the terrestrial centerand behind her the dooropens darkly down to the beginningfar down to the first simple cryand the animal waking in waterand the opening of the eyeshe looks out in the blue morningand sees a whole wonderful worldshe looks out in the morningand sees a whole world.