By the canefields at dusk.

From solidarity and desire, the trace of winter’s end,
Will I always remember that? I see people
Scowled on their prophecies, and dreams from before
Are never nearly settled in the impression of first want—
With these rhythmic ghosts upon red petals, and in the distance
The beauty of the dew—vanishing in deeper silence—
Terrifying their own voices nightmarish with unease