The Double Dream of Spring Read Online Free PDF

She remembered spinach
    And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
    “M’love,” he intercepted, “the plains are decked out in thunder
    Today, and it shall be as you wish.” He scratched
    The part of his head under his hat. The apartment
    Seemed to grow smaller. “But what if no pleasant
    Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country .”
    Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
    Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach
    When the door opened and Swee’pea crept in. “How pleasant!”
    But Swee’pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. “Thunder
    And tears are unavailing,” it read. “Henceforth shall Popeye’s apartment
    Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched.”
    Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched
    Her long thigh. “I have news!” she gasped. “Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country
    One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment
    And all that it contains, myself and spinach
    In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder
    At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant
    Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant
    Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched
    Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder.”
    She grabbed Swee’pea. “I’m taking the brat to the country.”
    “But you can’t do that—he hasn’t even finished his spinach,”
    Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.
    But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment
    Succumbed to a strange new hush. “Actually it’s quite pleasant
    Here,” thought the Sea Hag. “If this is all we need fear from spinach
    Then I don’t mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over”—she scratched
    One dug pensively—“but Wimpy is such a country
    Bumpkin, always burping like that.” Minute at first, the thunder
    Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,
    The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched
    His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.

Sunrise in Suburbia
    The tone is hard is heard
    Is the coming of strength out of night: unfeared;
    Still the colors are there and they
    Ask the question of this what is to be
    Out of a desert of chance in which being is life
    But like a paradox, death reinforcing the life,
    Sound under memory, as though our right to hear
    Hid old unwillingness to continue
    Or a style of turning to the window
    Hands directing the air, and no design sticks,
    Only agreement not to let it die.
    Others will bend these as it is possible
    And a new mode will be sunning into the past:
    Refreshment and ease to the statement
    And back to the safe beginning, because it starts out
    Once more, drawn to and fro in a warm current of breathing
    As fires start in hope and cold and
    Color those nearest and only warm the most distant.
    The inflection is suspended,
    Not to be thoroughly initiated, under a spell to continue;
    Its articulate flatness, goal, barrier and climate.
    Through the clutter of
    The unbound year, the first dazed marks of waking
    Stir on the cloud-face like texture of paper, breath at elbow
    And the collapsed sign of yesterday afternoon, its
    Variance put up like a shutter,
    Taxing you into January of stomping, cursing and the breath-bite.
    The entrance you need is
    Sideways in pentagonal fields cursive in advance
    Before the fathoming of spring and
    Sound let deep into the flank of occurrence
    As maps lean south and shrivel toward the north.
    It is fine to be in on it, stone markings, always
    And eventually at some limit with a high view
    But cross-country skirtings were part of the next lesson
    That sleep evades, and in him was no parking space
    For looks dragged under windows next time, from boarded-up places
    Speaking no mind into the center of the rout.
    And as day followed day the plainer meaning