Winter 1952 • Vol. XIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1952 |

Night Constable

1. An old man, shaking the doors. See him Preceded by a dog. Have him not Part of the dark or greened by neon. See the streets stride out from under him And lights turn their wheels around his path. I would have him looking in, staining The glass with not looking through. Nor is this dog more than the mission Of his bark, the avid tongue steaming Over water, the cabalistic circle Before reclining, a summer's great digging. He slept at day, blinds drawn around him, In a green sluice like hippos in a pool. Dreams like bubbles lifted from his face. Something of fruit rotting in a cellar With subtle exhalation of steam; delayed Harvests festering: that which cannot Happen, or having happened, cannot mean. 2. Once he loved beeplace and cambered leaf, Thick rocks notching the water, a house Bulging with quiet, trees where                           "a bird gays," She said, "its heart breathes a circling fire." They swam in

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