Knoxville: Summer of 1915, Op.24

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
Squared 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 on 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 backyard
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 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