I took the thin moon and the sky for coverTo pick the cat’s brains and descendA weedy hill. I found him grovelingInside the summerhouse, a shadowed bulge,Furred and somnolent.—’I bring,’I said, ‘besides this dish of liver, and an edgeOf cheese, the customary torments,And the usual wonder why we liveAt all, and why the world thins…
Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and meshOf seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland,Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seenThat may be hers appear: foul, lingeringDeath in certain war, the slim legs green.Or, fed on hate, she relishes…
The war is in words and the wood is the worldThat turns beneath our rootless feet;the vines that reach, alive and snarled,Across the path where the sand is swirled,Twist in the night. The light lies flat.The war is in words and the wood is the world.The rain is ruin and our ruin ridesThe swiftest winds;…
But here dried ferns keep falling to the floor,And something inside my headFlaps like a worn-out blind. Royal Cortssoz is dead.A blow to the Herald-Tribune. A closet mouseRattles the wrapper on the breakfast food. RenanAdmired Jesus Christ ‘wholeheartedly.’Flaps like a worn-out blind. CezanneWould break out in the quiet streets of AixAnd shout, ‘Le monde, c’est…
Who knew the source of bells by sound.We liked it, but in ignorance.One meets authorities on bells infrequently.Europe alone made bells with such a tone,Herr Mannheim said. The bellStruck midnight, and it shook the room.He had heard bells in Leipzig, Chartres, Berlin,Paris, Vienna, Brussels, Rome.He was a white-faced man with sad enormous eyes.Reader, for me…
Count the wound-up places where we went aground.As an entertainment, zero. Hero horror. Try the lineOf incestuous relations, hearty friendship, or the cultOf the ectoplasmic navel and the ravishments of guilt.Page two was delightful. And the margins were wide;One was tempted by the imagery of bloody wrists,Your hysterogetic spasms and italicized reproofs.You may well supplant…
You seem to weep more now that heatSpreads everywhere we look.It says here none of us is well.The warty spottings on the figurinesAre nothing you would care to claim.You seem to weep more since the magazinesBegan revivals on the Dundas book.It says here you were most to blame.But though I cannot believe that this is…
Parts of a sentence, hanging in the air,Thoughts breaking in the mind like glass,Blank sheets of paper that reflect the worldWhitened the world that I was silenced by.There were two years of that. Slowly,Whatever splits, dissevers, cuts, cracks, ravels, or dividesTo bring me to that diet of corrosion, burnedAnd flickered to its terminal.–Now in an…
Is spreading, Cousin Agatha, and growing brighter.Nonsense. The oriole warbles in the sunlight.The fountains gush luxuriantly above the pool.The weather is ideal: on the paths a sheenOf summer provides a constant delight.I am thinking of affiliating with a new theosophist group.—Once you could hide it with a nickel.Now it strangely assumes the shape and size…
The sand ripped up, and the newer bloodStreaked like a vein to every monument.The empty smoke that drifted near the gunsWhere the stiff motor pounded in the mudHad the smell of a hundred burned-out suns.The ceiling of your sky went dark.A year ago today they cracked your bones.So rot in a closet in the groundFor…
