When you liein the Bed of lost Flag-Cloth,with blue-black Syllables, in Snow-Eyelash-Shadow,the Crane through Thought-showers,comes gliding, steely-you open for him.
His beak ticks the Hour for youat every Mouth – at everybell-stroke, with red-hot Rope, a Silent-Millennium,
Un-Pulse and Pulsemint each other to death,the Dollars, the Cents,rain hard through your
Second-Shapesyou fly there and barthe Doors Yesterday and Tomorrow – phosphorescent,
Forever-Teeth,buds the one, and buds theother breast,towards the Grasping, underthe Thrusts –: so thick,so deeplystrewnthe
Crane-Seed.
