If the swallow scent goes looming
Out of orbit of snow, then descend,
Gathering leftovers and facades
Of ill hope and smooth winters. Call
It your breach of trust and begin
The twining of rope strand, the ginning
Of straw bands and little things.
If the ginning can make you swallow whole
The beads and parts of pining, the reams
And welts of roughened shore, then cloud out
The salt menageries and withered bowls
Howling menace where once deaf lull was
Sure; when ill hope and smooth winters
Caressed loud, caressed blue and silk.
The lulling deafness of surety will crease your
Panned out soul and brown the layers of
Roughage and grease; where the reams and
welts part the cloud of etched out silver
Pinings; the little things and straw bands
Cast in surefire dips in pools of marrow; this
Will command the soultank to mind its own.