151 No, I will not tell you what I want to tell -- I will make The world speak for me in words written by the dots From the spurts of rain on vulnerable sand; and in spells That wind prints upon the gulls hit by every blow. Yes, I make the silence echo to your voice -- by the bass Of waves crashing at the stones, in the ears of storm; By the whisper of the rain that shut my mouth with its wet Long hands; and the anxious train waking up the birds. No, I will not show you what I want to show -- I will make Swift trees mirror you my dreams in a pantomime, When the sweeping wind tears off the leaves and remains In boughs swinging close to touch and to intertwine.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems