Vol. 42 No. 3 1975 - page 402

James Schuyler
GROWING DARK
The grass shakes.
Smoke streaks, no,
cloud strokes.
The dogs are fed.
Their licenses
clank on pottery.
The phone rings.
And is answered.
The pond path
is washed-out grass
between green
WInter cover.
Last night in
bed I read.
You came to
my room and
said, "Isn't
the world
terrible?" "My
dear. .... " I
said. It could be
and has been
worse. So
beautiful and
things keep getting
in between. When
I was young I
hurt others. Now,
others have hurt
me. In the night
I thought I heard
a dog bark .
Racking sobs.
Poor guy . Yet,
I got my sleep.