| Coole Jerk|
When we were all the nine-and-fifty swans,
When all our multiplicities took flight
Through just one other's vast encouragement,
Pleasure was not a dream one could wake from.
Why are we fifty-nine wild swans? you sang,
For fifty-nine's an odd number, of course.
All that we are, I crooned, is in this mass,
And one part of us has not wed for life:
I don't believe in you for me; I don't
Believe you're not that mournful thing, a man
Who dreams and wakes hell-bent on capturing
Song's ecstasy in images of song.
Who, lover by lover, is still clamorous,
Is some white sovereignty that oversees?