Earth’s Hair which is it always; its aim beyond knowing, as in greater flowering, where petals lie thick and bright, scant hide their breath, time-tender grinning. Look: the grasses quiver against feet bound for summer sleep, Aingerous waves enclose, impose in breadth this rumination: watered clay darkly suggests, where Valentine heard its sprigging, or none may like it left, nor speak.

• Mina Loy