a red brick chair
90 feet high
on the seat of which
sit the figures
of two metal
stacks–aluminum–
commanding an area
of squalid shacks
side by side–
from one of which
buff smoke
streams while under
a grey sky
the other remains
passive today–
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I feel the caress of my own fingers
and think pityinglyof the kind women I have known.
A middle-northern March, now as always–
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,it moves–not into April–into a second March,the old skin of wind-clear scales droppingupon the mold: this is the shadow projects the treeupward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.So we will put on our pink felt hat–new last year!–newer this by virtue of brown…
The murderer’s little daughter
jerks her shouldersright and leftso as to catch a glimpse of mewithout turning round.Her skinny little armswrap themselvesthis way then thatreversely about her body!Nervouslyshe crushes her straw hatabout her eyesand tilts her headto deepen the shadow—smiling excitedly!As best as she canshe hides herselfin the full sunlighther cordy legs writhingbeneath the little flowered dressthat leaves them…
the back wings
hospital wherenothingwill grow liecindersIn which shinethe brokenpieces of a greenbottle
A rumpled sheet
About the lengthAnd apparent bulkOf a man wasRolling with theWind slowly overAnd over inThe street asA car drove downUpon it andCrushed it toThe ground. UnlikeA man it roseAgain rollingWith the wind overAnd over to be asIt was before.Anonymous submission.