Soon of these May mornings, rising in mist, he will ask
Only to blend-like ink in flesh. blue anchor
Needled upon drunkenness while its destroyer
Full steam departs, the stigma throbbing, intricate-
Only to blend into a crazing texture.
You are far away. The leaves tell what they tell.
But this lone chipped vessel if it fills,
Fills for you with something warm and clear.
(From) JAMES MERRILL Willowware Cup