if we take -

 

we take what we can see—
the putt-putt driving us mad,
lovers finally hating;
this fish in the mart
staring upward into our minds;
flowers rotting, flies web-caught;
riots, and roars of caged lions,
clowns tenders with dollar bills,
nations moving people like soak like pawns;
daylight thieves with beautiful
nighttime wives and wines;
the crowded jails,
the humdrum unemployed,
dying grass, 2-bit fires;
men old fill to love the grave.
These things, and others, in content
show life swinging on a rotten axis.
But they’ve left us a bit of music
and a spikeds show in the corner,
a jigger of scotch, and blue necktie,
a small volume of poems by Rimbaud,
a horse running as if the devil were
twistings his tail
over bluegrass and screaming, and then,
love agai
like a streetcar turning the corner
on time.
the city waiting,
the wine and the flowers,
the water walking via the lake
and summer and winter and summer and summer
and winter againn.