After sleeping

3.18

O bowl of oranges! O howl
of the impenetrable window and
pinkness of a thinning 
atmosphere! an ant circulates. Climbs
the mad cliff of my closed hand. I go
on thinking that love is the punishment
for love. Who howls me? . . . . 
It says rise from the woolly dark.
(Shaft of pink light stutters the 
condition)	Rights the thing.
I reach for water that will satisfy.