Now I put 500 books into cardboard boxes
And the boxes into the back of the car hoping
Springs and axle will take the weight
Then walk out across the town, the fox’s
Lair gaily tarnisht today in winter light
The cubist garden, stone walls sloping
With and across. Walk to a purpose and wait
For that pause in the business and shopping
When a spark of world falls and locks
Itself behind the ear, a sky-connected fate
Capsule, small as a bee’s sting, groping
Down the spine in search of a heart, down the throat
In search of a voice to say you make an art
Of these days among people, your prime state.