The dayseye hugging the earth 
in August, ha! Spring is 
gone down in purple, 
weeds stand high in the corn, 
the rainbeaten furrow 
is clotted with sorrel 
and crabgrass, the 
branch is black under 
the heavy mass of the leaves-- 
The sun is upon a 
slender green stem 
ribbed lengthwise. 
He lies on his back-- 
it is a woman also-- 
he regards his former 
majesty and 
round the yellow center, 
split and creviced and done into 
minute flowerheads, he sends out 
his twenty rays-- a little 
and the wind is among them 
to grow cool there! 

One turns the thing over 
in his hand and looks 
at it from the rear: brownedged, 
green and pointed scales 
armor his yellow. 

But turn and turn, 
the crisp petals remain 
brief, translucent, greenfastened, 
barely touching at the edges: 
blades of limpid seashell.