The air is wet,soaks
Into mattresses,and curls
In apparitions of smoke.
Like fat white slugs furled
Among the timber,
Or silver fish tunneling
The damp linen covers
Of schoolbooks,or working
Quietly like centipedes,
The air walking everywhere
On its hundred feet
Is filled with the glare
On tropical water.
Again we are taken over
By clouds and rolling darkness.
Small snails appear
Clashing their timid horns
Among the morning glory
Vines.
Into mattresses,and curls
In apparitions of smoke.
Like fat white slugs furled
Among the timber,
Or silver fish tunneling
The damp linen covers
Of schoolbooks,or working
Quietly like centipedes,
The air walking everywhere
On its hundred feet
Is filled with the glare
On tropical water.
Again we are taken over
By clouds and rolling darkness.
Small snails appear
Clashing their timid horns
Among the morning glory
Vines.
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