Wild to Make
His neck aches. Eyes are scalded in their sockets.
For it has been a long and irksome day
With no rose petals strewn before his feet,
No lily to restore mind’s wildering,
A day without a glimpse of kingliness,
Without sunset. The light just drained away.
A little spasm in the brain says he
Has gone beyond the gate of weariness.
Still the Fool kneels in the kitchen midden,
Making a city out of broken china.
By starlight, towers and shard cottages
Of crockery are glowing, luminous
Neighborhoods for the moon: how he trembles
From the chill or else from pilfering,
The bringing something out of things that are
Not—like syllables’ juggled radiance.