Things will come in the green hall:
The leopard served me --
I followed him in apron swath;
There were berries and laughing children.

Forget your aprons: the tubes
Already creep, and bananas have settled
On the street. These are old houses.

There is a room facing the sea.
A wind begets the windows
And a flower snows. There is a bed
And a pillow like a child’s head.

These things are real: the constellations
And moving air, the water, the fundament:
“Say it is dark, now -- say it is light.”
Let it turn. Let it turn.