For Emily Wilson

Such a long time as the wave idling gathers

lofts and presses forward into the curvature

of the height before one realizes that the

tension completes itself with a fall through air,

disorganization the prelude to the meandering

of another gather and hurl, the necessary:

ah, what can one make to absorb the astonishment:

you should have seen me the merchant at market

this morning: the people ogled me with severe

goggles: maids, buying in manners and measures

beyond themselves, stared into my goods and

then grew horror-eyed: wives still as distant

from day as a carrot from dinner took the

misconnection sagely, a usual patience:

peashells, I said, long silky peashells: cobs,

I said, long cobs: husks and shucks, I said:

one concerned person pointed out that my whole

economy was wrong; yes, I said, but I have

nothing else to sell: and I said to her, won't

you appreciate the silky beds where seeds

have lain: she had not come to that: and

how about this residence all the grains have

left: won't you buy it and think about it:

not for dinner, she said: rinds, I cried,

rinds and peelings: there was some interest

in those, as for a marmalade, but no one willing,

finally, to do the preparations: absurd, one

woman shouted, and then I grew serious: can you

do with that: but she was off before we fully

met: you should have seen me the merchant at

market this morning: will bankruptcy make a

go of it: will the leavings be left only: the

wave turns over and does not rise again, that wave.