The immense hope, and forbearance
Trailing out of night, to sidewalks of the day
Like air breathed into a paper city, exhaled
As night returns bringing doubts
That swarm around the sleeper’s head
But are fended off with clubs and knives, so that morning
Installs again in cold hope
The air that was yesterday, is what you are,
In so many phases the head slips from the hand
The tears ride freely, laughs or sobs:
What do they matter? There is free giving and taking;
The giant body relaxed as though besides a stream
Wakens to the force of it and has to recognize
The secret sweetness before it turns into life—
Sucked out of many exchanges, torn from the womb,
Disinterred before completely head—and heaves
Its mountain-broad chest…
—John Ashbery, from “Spring Day”
Art Credit George Holroyd
