Always there are afternoons, The empty days, and scaly Layers of intimate Footprints, deep Enough to step into— And the hidden meadow High above the skyline Under the spent trees Like the opening of a Spirit, half in, half Out, of the clouds, Smoke ring or Kismet, or a first kiss. The old trail of leaves—hundreds Of miles—like scars, back Down to the heavy door, Cannot be seen in this Dark, when, usually, or Surely, a swelling Rain falls over the house.