I wanted to walk in the snow
but it stopped.
I wanted to read the book of Russian letters
but I finished it.
I wanted to mail you a letter myself
but I mailed it.
I had an appointment with the moment
and I kept it. That is why I am pacing
like a prolific source of sorrow.
Something must have happened. Strange
that its genius has not become known
in Massachusetts, but clearly so odd
and lovely a thing deserves to be forgiven.
The silkworms are hanging,
their velvet heads are hungry
and I, I have not altogether snapped:
I remember the future.
It is a lot like the past.
Welcome the shy tot who always botched it,
some smear of himself holding out
among the mulberry leaves.