E.E.

6:45 A.M.

Coming home

At 6:45 a.m.

On a Sunday morning,

Alone,

Through snow,

Is like sinking

Through the dark, cold channel

Of madness

And melancholy.

(all night

the gay voices—

shrill laughter—

music from a nightmare—

and a strange assortment

of penny-candy eyes,

and penny-candy lips.)

Coming home

At 6:45 a.m.

On a Sunday morning

Is like being very, very old,

And very, very wise,

Yet still in the wombDead though unborn-

Complete but unbreathing—

R. L. B.

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