Nathalia Crane

We'll rid us of the pigeons — A city's edict ran; Apt soilers of our parapets, The pouter and the fan.

Each roof a drift of feathers; On Trinity they lean ; The Chrysler but a cooer's haunt — The Woolworth, Gretna Green.

We rid us of the pigeons, A poison paste was fed; The wagons rolled, the children heard The cry: "Bring out your dead."

They bore them forth in clusters, In wreaths they laid them down ; The tumbrils looked like Easter dawn When lilies come to town.

Old bells in empty turrets Have canceled one refrain; Their voices failed a whirling cloud That never comes again.

And in a whited city, Inscriptions show at dark: Time grew so clean it slaughtered here The dove that graced the Ark.

Once, long ago, a herald made a jest — Stuck roses upside down upon a crest. The sky became the earth — the earth the sky, And many sovereigns stared and wondered why. But some believe the herald really tried To root the roses on the better side.

Robinson Crusoe's daughters Worry about a chest, Left in the windy attic Under the swallow's nest,

Smelling of tar and seaweed, Robinson Crusoe's hoard; Prop for the ironing board. Once it stood in the kitchen,

Often a phantom polly Shouted and jigged within; Sobbed for a sunflower pastry, Begged for a tot of gin;

Boasted his charts for reading, Gold for a candle glow; Bragged of his ghostly honor— Being the watch below.

Robinson Crusoe's daughters Rummage the house in vain; Never that brazen mimic Copies the anchor chain;

Never he grounds the musket— That was his midnight jest, Guarding a desert island Locked in a sailor's chest.

Stairways are taught to listen While they are matching seed, Mixing enticing pastries Fit for a phantom's need.

Robinson Crusoe's laughter, Robinson Crusoe's fears, Remnants of old devotions Dusty and stained with years.

Meet me at the dial in the garden, Meet me at the fountain in Seville; Meet me at the Camel Mosque in Mecca— Leave your bonny brogans on the sill.

Meet me 'neath the stars in Salamanca, Meet me on the sidewalk in the moon; Meet me at the dial in the garden Any time along the afternoon.

Many may kneel when the Pyramids fall ; I, an apprentice of fate, Study the boulder that lurks in the plum, Ponder the bolt in the date.

My love was smiling and skipping the rope, Counting one hundred and four — Down from the ledge of a reader's retreat Tumbled a dried apple core.

Turbulent seeds in that remnant of fruit, Orchards of possible red ; All of the leafage and all of the boughs Fell on the top of her head.

Nurses and doctors are raying the bruise; Rumors are checking a score, Trying to figure the speed and the weight Shown by that infamous core.

I am not feeling as well as I was; I have the witness-box freeze ; Fate is an archer who, scorning the bow, Sobers a target with ease.

Drawn are the shades in the room of my love, Yet I have knocked on her door; Out came an answer in caretaker's cap — Fever one hundred and four.

Many may kneel when the Pyramids fall; I, an apprentice of fate, Study the plunge of the caraway seed, Ponder the bolt in the date.

The thunder scolds the cricket For a noisy afternoon; The lightning feigns a yawn's fatigue When the glowworm mimes the moon.

But the cricket and the glowworm Are unabashed by odds; They know that heaven once designed Some playthings for the gods.

We hold no awe for the new unknown Who tasted each ancient plan; We fear no fuse in the atom's jaw, No ray in the palm of man.

For the dew still dazzles the garden old, The grasses their goblets fill, And the dawn we thought in the doctor's care Comes in by the window-sill.

From the rills that reason slandered, From the rose that never grew, From the tinder of the flowerless fern Rise the frontiers of the new.

How strange to all adventurers Who push the leaves away, And see the Future turn her face And show us Yesterday.