On what day did the Seeker, that foul-shaped gangly Figure, weep and belly-crawl toward me Forward winding? In craven eaves, in parsley fields, I wrinkled sleeves, running, running, A bare-foot straw sock stuck fast and wide While crows were nodding, nodding, nodding. The mansion breaks the parsley skirting; my mouth Is panting, low, unsightly. A butter cloud of moths Were dancing, and caught my cheeks with tender tags Of sickly salt-pan glister. With baked stone walls I Pushed the tail-bone, and time was wailing fast before Me, it scratched my back into a cup of clawing, Chasing fingers. He seeks me still in wooden boxing, under sweating Hands are shaking; time atop my crush of raven Swings a hefty, dullsome, tune. Knees were pulled far Up and rounded, domed and white, and jade, and black, Stuck and stinking fragrantly, the skiddish slums of slime Betrayed me- sleeves were dirty, hot, and green. With backbone slinking down the body, the clock Grows loud with muffled strumming. In front, the crack, The door before me, small enough to wholesome hold Me, blanks the mansion's putty light. Arms that longly grope The run trail, scoop a crackle from the door frame; Ones that pester, hound and perish With longing, longing, longing.