For the Road
Again, between pausing for breath and going on, resumes
the study of the figure by itself on a remote dust-path.
Again the close sky and the point past which,
through fuchsia and pylons, one way or another comes.

Comes the day like today when it's dry enough for you
to sit in the heavy air. When this familiar face
calls by and describes again for hours in your place
the same old plans that you drink one more time to.

To the privilege of choosing either to up and go
or not as the case may be. To the countries of cloud
that are visible from your gate, and the white road
between that each longer evening takes a shine to.

To the afternoons such as these that refuse to rain.
To the furniture in youf' orchard, your open book,
and your voice making fun of yours truly, whose like
...