Together burned and swept,
Now smothered
In separate darkness.

IX. MUD

I am dazed and weary
From the shapelessness
Of what I am--

I am poured
Among haphazard stones
In meaningless patterns.

Yesterday's sun dried me
Between rounded cobbles,
Today's deluge sweeps me
Toward alien pavements,
Tomorrow's sun shall dry me
In a new design.

Better the turbid gutter
Toward the open sea!

X. FOOLS SAY--

November's breath
Is black in the branches of trees
And under the bushes,