Summer 1944 • Vol. VI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1944 |

Nosce Te Ipsum

Occasional mornings when an early fogNot yet dispersed stands in every yardAnd drips and undiscloses, she is severelyPut to the task of herself. Usually here we have view window dawns,The whole East Bay at least some distance into the room,Puffing the curtains, and then she is outIn the submetropolitan stir. But when the fog at the glass pauses and closesShe is put to ponderA life-line, how it chooses to run obscurelyIn her hand, before her.

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