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March, the fierce! like a wind of garters

it's calm kept secret, as if eaten!

and sipped at the source tainted, taut.

Vagrants, crushed by such effulgence,

wrap their mild twigs and bruises in straws

and touch themselves tightly, like buttered bess,

for the sun is cold, there, as an eyeglass

playing with its freshly running sinuses,

swampy, and of a molasses sweetnes on the cheek.

Turn, oh turn! your pure divining rod

for the sake of infantile suns and their railing

and storming at the deplorably pale cheeks

and the hemlocks not yet hung up.

Do we live in old, sane, sensible cries?

The guards stand up and down like a waltz

and its strains are stolen by fauns

with their wounded feet nevertheless dashing

away through the woods, for the iris! for autumn!

Oh pure blue of a footstep, have you stolen

March? and, with your cupiditous baton

struck agog? do you feel that you have, blue?

Ah, March! you have not decided whom you train.

Or what traitors are waiting for you to be born,

of March!

or what it will mean in terms of diet.

Take my clear big eyes into your heart, and then

pump my clear big eyes through your bloodstream, and!

stick my clear big eyes on your feet, it is cold,

I am all over snowshoes and turning round

and round. There's trail of blood through

the wood and a few shreds of faun-colored hair.

I am troubled as I salute the crocus.

There shall be no more reclining on the powdered roads,

your veins are using up the redness of the world.