24
PARTISAN REVIEW
and of the blood her precocious grandchild, which you realize you are
hearing only when you catch yourself listening. Meantime from low in the
dark, just outside the swaying horizons of the hoses, conveying always grass
in the damp of dew and its strong green-black smear of smell, the regular
yet spaced noises of the crickets, each a sweet cold silver noise threenoted,
like the slipping each time of three matched links of a small chain.
But the men by now, one by one, have silenced their hoses and drained
and coiled them. Now only two, and now only one, is left, and you see
only ghostlike shirt with the sleeve garters, and sober mystery of
hi
mild face like the lifted face of large cattle enquiring of your presence in
a pitchdark pool of meadow; and now he too is gone; and it has become
that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and
talking gently and watching the street and the standing up into their sphere
of possession of the trees, of birds hung havens, hangars. People go by;
things go by. A horse, drawing a buggy, breaking his hollow iron music on
the asphalt: a loud auto : a quiet auto: people in pairs, not in a hurry,
scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body, talking casually, the taste
hovering over them of vanilla, strawberry, pasteboard and starched milk;
the image upon them of lovers and horsemen, squared with clowns in hue–
less amber. A street car raising its iron moan; stopping; belling and start–
ing, stertorous; rousing and. raising again its iron increasing moan and
swimming its gold windows and straw seats on past and past and past, ·the
bleak spark crackling and cursing above it like a small malignant spirit set
to dog its tracks; the iron whine rises on rising speed; still risen, faints;
halts ; the faint stinging bell; rises again, still fainter; fainting, lifting, lifts,
faints forgone : forgotten. Now is the night one blue dew.
Now is the night one blue dew, my father has drained, he has
coiled the hose.
Low on the length of lawns, a frailing of fire who breathes.
Content, silver, like peeps of light, each cricket makes his comment
over and over in the drowned grass.
A cold toad thumpily flounders.
Within the edges of damp shadows of side yards are hovering children
nearly sick with joy of fear, who watch the unguarding of a
telephone pole.
Around white carbon corner lamps bugs of all sizes are lifted elliptic,
solar systems. Big hardshells bruise themselves, assailant: he is fallen
on his back, legs squiggling.
Parents on porches: rock and rock. From damp strings morning glories:
hang their ancient faces.
The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air at once
enchants my eardrums.
.
