Edith Sitwell and the Carnal World

8

Viewer, think above sea-and-eye level, outside and fixed.
Mother and Father. The stars, which have hardly shifted
for months. Certain coastlines from a ship.
Streetlights in rain. The gritty top of a wall you climbed once.
Think now of your clothing stippled with stars,
a cape of deep-piled velvet that’s just your height.
How you hated someone for half your life
then turned sweet friends. Amends you didn’t need to make.
And always, like a springtime swarm or bonnet,
maracas you can’t stop shaking, or five unfinished figures
in a painting, ideas you’ve torched or touched
in indecent places. Think anything at all then, Dear,
and note the spots at which the compass drifted.
Now think of the stars, which have hardly shifted.