It has become that time of evening
when people sit on their porches
Rocking gently and talking gently
And watching the street
And the standing up into their sphere of possession of the trees
of birds' hung havens, hangars
People go by, things go by
A horse, drawing a buggy
breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt
A loud auto, a quiet auto
People in pairs, not in a hurry, scuffling
switching their weight of aestival body, talking casually
the taste hovering over them
of vanilla, strawberry, pasteboard, and starched milk
The image upon them of lovers and horsemen
squaring with clowns in hueless amber
A streetcar raising its iron moan
Stopping, belling, and starting, stertorous
Rousing and raising again its iron increasing moan
And swimming its gold windows and straw seats on past and past and past
The bleak spark crackling and cursing above it
Like a small malignant spirit set to dog its tracks
The iron whine rises on rising speed
Still risen, faints, halts
The faint stinging bell, rises again, still fainter
fainting, lifting, lifts, faints foregone, forgotten
Now is the night one blue dew
Now is the night one blue dew
My father has drained, he has coiled the hose
Low in the length of lawns, a frailing of fire who breathes
Parents on porches, rock and rock
From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces
The dry and exalted noise of the locusts
from all the air at once enchants my eardrums
On the rough wet grass of the back yard
my father and mother have spread quilts
We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt
and I too am lying there
They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet
of nothing in particular, of nothing at all in particular, of nothing at all
The stars are wide and alive
They seem each like a smile of great sweetness
and they seem very near
All my people are larger bodies than mine
with voices gentle and meaningless like the voices of sleeping birds
One is an artist, he is living at home
One is a musician, she is living at home
One is my mother who is good to me
One is my father who is good to me
By some chance, here they are, all on this earth
And who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth
Lying, on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening
among the sounds of the night
May God bless my people
My uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father
Oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble
and in the hour of their taking away
After a little I am taken in and put to bed
Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her
And those receive me, who quietly treat me
as one familiar and well-beloved in that home
but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever
but will not ever tell me who I am