Dust gathers in my mouth. I cannot speak
What I would say. Whether it is the drought
Of age, or some strange filtrate of the past
That sets a parchèd seal upon the lips,
I do not know. It may be that from thistles
I tried to gather figs, or where I looked
Before I plucked, I said the vines were dry.
Now I am old. I find the roadways blocked,
And memory, ranging through the fungus years,
Finds but the husks where it would take the fruit.
And yet there is a knocking in this clay--
A restless flame--something that, if it could,
Would leap these grammared confines of slow speech,
And give the echo to your dancing words.
THIS BOOK IS A PRODUCTION OF
THE RYERSON PRESS,
TORONTO, CANADA