the top of
the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot
carefully
then the hind
stepped down
into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot
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I feel the caress of my own fingers
and think pityinglyof the kind women I have known.
Ecstatic bird songs pound
with metallic clinkings–beating color up into itat a far edge,–beating it, beating itwith rising, triumphant ardor,–stirring it into warmth,quickening in it a spreading change,–bursting wildly against it asdividing the horizon, a heavy sunlifts himself–is lifted–bit by bit above the edgeof things,–runs free at lastout into the open–!lumberingglorified in full release upward–songs cease.
And yet one arrives somehow,
her dressin a strange bedroom–feels the autumndropping its silk and linen leavesabout her ankles.The tawdry veined body emergestwisted upon itselflike a winter wind . . . !
My shoes as I lean
stand out uponflat worsted flowersunder my feet.Nimbly the shadowsof my fingers playunlacingover shoes and flowers.
You sullen pig of a man
with your stinking ash-cart!Brother!-if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!It is dreams that have destroyed us.There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.Well-all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand-dreams are not a bad thing.
One leaves his leaves at home
to peer from: I will have my way,yellow–A mast with a lantern, tenfifty, a hundred, smaller and smalleras they grow more–Liar, liar, liar!You come from her! I can smell djer-kisson your clothes. Ha! you come to me,you, I am a point of dew on a grass-stem.Why are you sending heat down on mefrom your lantern?–You…