They are murdering all the young men.
For half a century now, every day,
They have hunted them down and killed them.
They are killing them now.
At this minute, all over the world,
They are killing the young men.
They know ten thousand ways to kill them.
Every year they invent new ones.
In the jungles of Africa,
In the marshes of Asia,
In the deserts of Asia,
In the slave pens of Siberia,
In the slums of Europe,
In the nightclubs of America,
The murderers are at work.

We headed out to the orchard
And looked for a while
It seemed all right
The apples weren’t complaining
The Bird of the Mountains
Was strolling around
Making up a little song
Maybe to the sun
Or for his special friends
Or his sweetheart
Or just to himself
And maybe for no reason
That anybody could tell you about
Sort of like I’m doing right now

We go out together into the staring town
And buy cheese and bread and little jugs with flowered labels

Everywhere is a tent for us to put on our whirling show

A great deal has been said of the handless serpents
Which war has set loose in the gay milk of our heads

But because you braid your hair and taste like honey of heaven
We go together into town and buy wine and yellow candles

O this is celebration enough for twenty worlds!

Because the snow is deep
Without spot that white falling through white air

Because she limps a little—bleeds
Where they shot her

Because hunters have guns
And dogs have hangmen’s legs

Because I’d like to take her in my arms
And tend her wound

Because she can’t afford to die
Killing the young in her belly

I don’t know what to say of a soldier’s dying
Because there are no proportions in death

The sea is awash with roses O they blow
Upon the land

The still hills fill with their scent
O the hills flow on their sweetness
As on God’s hand

O love, it is so little we know of pleasure
Pleasure that lasts as the snow

But the sea is awash with roses O they blow
Upon the land

I painted the leaves of bushes red
And shouted “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed.
“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.
Then they cut down my bushes,
And made a bonfire,
And danced about it.
But I covered my face and wept,
For ashes are not beautiful
Even in the dawn.

Items of no
particular day
swarm down—

moves of the mind
that never quite
make it as poems:

like the way
you take me aside
and leave me

by the water
with its waves
knitted

like your sweater
like your brow;
moves of the mind

that take us
somewhere near
and leave us

combing the air
for signs
of change,

signs the sky
will break
and shower down

upon us
particular
ideas of light.

To go into the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

I love to lie down weary
under the stalk of sleep
growing slowly out of my head,
the dark leaves meshing.

He comes along the street, singing,
a rag of a man, with his game foot and bum’s clothes.
He’s asking for nothing—his hands
aren’t even held out. His song
is the gift of singing, to him
and to all who will listen.

To hear him, you’d think the engines
would all stop, and the flower vendor would stand
with her hands full of flowers and not move.
You’d think somebody would have hired him
and provided him a clean quiet stage to sing on.

But there’s no special occasion or place
for his singing—that’s why it needs
to be strong. His song doesn’t impede the morning
or change it, except by freeing adding itself.