Tear off the faded sheets.
See the baby in the cape.
Blue eyes make me weep
in the morning's brittle garden,
in the wind's canine chill,
in the hungry afternoon,
in the vapor-rich night,
in the sky's gray coat --
a screen, a pouring sea --
in the almost-accident,
in the azure sunset,
in the sudden curve ball,
in the sure, little death
of each and every sleep,
in the return,
in the wicked toss to wake,
in the backache stretch to rise.
We wear secret, golden skins.
C. A. MacConnell
