362

I take your tickets on the Hudson line.

Out of my infrequent death no flower grow,

Out of my solitude no overt word,

Out of my silence

                              An eloquence,

In which my instrument move, dumb to all

Command, and my life fall upon its cause.

I take your ticket on the Hudson line,

Watching in its each instance

                                                Tired arms,

Infant-eye's dark wellshaft, barren scalp,

Slender girl-thigh, fallen mother breast,

All, move in recognition of some other,

As my instrument move, but not speak of it.

Look to one another, and I watch you

Through our passage, out of my practice

Less love than may come between you all,

Broken as I am, in these sullen clothes,

Hard at my métier, that I stand until

Out of it I fall and my tears fall from me,

And that I love you all where you lay silent.

For that my body cannot communicate,

I chemical am, here,

                                 Waiting to be resigned.