Sub Terra

Where shall I find you—  

You, my grotesque fellows  

That I seek everywhere  

To make up my band?  

None, not one        

With the earthy tastes I require:  

The burrowing pride that rises  

Subtly as on a bush in May.  

Where are you this day—  

You, my seven-year locusts        

With cased wings?  

Ah, my beauties, how I long!  

That harvest  

That shall be your advent—  

Thrusting up through the grass,        

Up under the weeds,  

Answering me—  

That shall be satisfying!  

The light shall leap and snap  

That day as with a million lashes!        

Oh, I have you!  

Yes, you are about me in a sense,  

Playing under the blue pools  

That are my windows.  

But they shut you out still        

There in the half light—  

For the simple truth is  

That though I see you clear enough …  

You are not there.  

It is not that—it is you,        

You I want, my companions!  

God! if I could only fathom  

The guts of shadows!—  

You to come with me  

Poking into negro houses        

With their gloom and smell!  

In among children  

Leaping around a dead dog!  

Mimicking  

Onto the lawns of the rich!        

You!  

To go with me a-tip-toe  

Head down under heaven,  

Nostrils lipping the wind!