The Man with the Blue Guitar XVII

The person has a mould. But not

Its animal. The angelic ones

Speak of the soul, the mind. It is

An animal. The blue guitar—

On that its claws propound, its fangs

Articulate its desert days.

The blue guitar a mould? That shell?

Well, after all, the north wind blows

A hom, on which its victory

Is a worm composing on a straw.