I May I Writ

Am I too pale? Skimp through the depths of the dark, For white snow blooms made crabbed, Flying over early breaks—

There the cycles round make circles; Yet inward still death’s low and long, Dragged below their heaved grasses, Sustaining nothing yet each moment.

A few brazen noises remind;
A stomach aching past forms. Through which even in autumn, I serve to be kissed by noon.

• Marianne Moore