If I wrote the word

and the word was fresh

all the beds of ice-night

turning in their twisted streams

the images watched too long

would drop and scatter

from a fevered sky.

As it is on the dock,

on its reaching puddled shade

and its rails for languor

when the empty water calls

for bladelike silence

so the realms of extra life

move swiftly in their colored orbs

for no human purpose

veined leaves alleviating scorn

the cracked spring's mercy.