NOT IDEAS ABOUT THE THING BUT THE THING ITSELF At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outside Seemed like a sound in his mind. He knew that he heard it, A bird's cry, at daylight or before, In the early March wind. The sun was rising at six, No longer a battered panache above snow... It would have been outside. lt was not from the vast ventriloquism Of sleep's faded papier-maché... The sun was coming from outside. That scrawny cry - it was A chorister whose e preceded the choir. It was part of the colossal sun, Surrounded by its choral rings, Stili far away. It was like A new knowledge of reality. 98
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