Come, poem, into my hand.
I have been two months waiting.
Come out of the gritty wind
That grinds and whistles
Steadily on the sound
I cock my ear for. There
Are mixed noises, many
Sweet motives near,
Ready to catch. Any
Will serve my turn. I hear,
Just out of earshot,
Words in a clamor of pulses,
Rhythms as riddles. I cannot
Be civil till stresses
Fall into their places. Out
Of the air, into my hand,
Poem, come. I am restless,
Crazy with straining for sound.
Not even love can guess
This need. Come you to my hand.