by Lorine Niedecker

    Feign a great calm；

    all gay transport soon ends.

    Chant： who knows—

    flight's end or flight's beginning

    for the resting gull？

    Heart， be still.

    Say there is money but it rusted；

    say the time of moon is not right for escape.

    It's the color in the lower sky

    too broadly suffused，

    or the wind in my tie.

    Know amazedly how

    often one takes his madness

    into his own hands

    and keeps it.