The sky whistles coldly through its teeth
hunger thrills in my limbs
like a young girl’s urge to dance

little boys in coats throw peachpits in the street
and dance in the hooded guise of Fortune

I go to the harbor
where the schooners murmur proverbs to each other
wind hems the sea’s skirts
white organdy
and blue calico
and the sea-thrushes grown fat and white
hurl their bodies high
against the tarnished moon