Four feet up, under the bruise-blue



Fingered hat-felt, the eyes begin. The sly brim



Slips over the sky, street after street, and nobody



Knows, to stop it. It will cover



The whole world, if there is time. Fifty years’



Start in gray the eyes have; you will never



Catch up to where they are, too clever



And always walking, the legs not long but



The boots big with wide smiles of darkness



Going round and round at their tops, climbing.



They are almost to the knees already, where



There should have been ankles to stop them.



So must keep walking all the time, hurry, for



The black sea is down where the toes are



And swallows and swallows all. A big coat



Can help save you. But eyes push you down; never



Meet eyes. There are hands in hands, and love



Follows its furs into shut doors; who



Shall be killed first? Do not look up there:



The wind is blowing the building-tops, and a hand



Is sneaking the whole sky another way, but



It will not escape. Do not look up. God is



On High. He can see you. You will die.





