Summer 1947 • Vol. IX No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1947 |

Tears

Not as the summer left, all leaves, These tears are natural; but unearthly, Troubled as secrets, or superficial Moonlight that erases dark. Who can tell, who can tell Why they spring from the well of will? A glass adoption, or a druggist's Window of the soul, they will False labels; as a wish Contaminates a look, a kiss Betokens every nakedness, This tear is twenty years of illness. Its salt tastes of the sea, its round Is a circled melancholy, A rainy Spring's tarnished key To a diary of faces, Travel posters of dead islands In a sea of last resources. This face on which it travels down Is not unnatural, but like every Face, a cobweb of our wish's Center: spider, deft, revealed. True tears are nets or knives, Not what the summer left, leaves.

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