sorry poem

when the hours of day are numbered
at midnight
see the tentative
to clothe the fiery thought
the sky
my mother taught me that every night
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
two rows of cabbages
for these white arms about my neck
with her hair flaying wildly
in new york harbor
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
there is a country full of wine
i see all human wits