Edward Sapir

I BELIEVE there is moving more than colored jackets

Down the street among the city rackets.

I do not think the sun-rain on the corner wall

Is all.

I cannot think the swirl is much

More than a little touch

Of souls, to steady to an equipoise

Their private thunderings, the subterranean noise.

For I have gathered scowl and elbow-thrust

And glint of pupil of the eye; there must,

I think, be lashing foam in canyons under there,

And this a heavy silence on the little empty air.

I do not think her ankles mincing through,

And round smile, are the flowers that we thought we knew.

Red jacket—stealthy lioness yawning in the wood,

And stealthy passion creeping in the blood.

The sun moves, and the colors of the air.

I think each canyon-river keeps its flowing there

Within the deepest constancy.

Call then the sun and jackets pageantry.