60

the sun as if a razor flashed.
The shadow fills each rind with momentary lucid flesh.

One aches to be attributed

or weighed upon a palm, then tossed aside.

/ /

Idol of the Ideal, scold.
For I am twisted on the flesh of things--

the merest skin: I bless each fruit in turn I hold,

or melt into the surplus of a word or scent's meanderings.

That is complete; or that contains

the roughshod sweetnesses
& cruelties of common things.