I sang
O reckless free-hearted
free-throated rythms,
Even the moon remembers them
And is kind to me.
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Your western heads here cast on money,
Partners in the mist.Lunging buffalo shoulder,Lean Indian face,We who come after where you are goneSalute your forms on the new nickel.You areTo us:The past.RunnersOn the prairie:Good-by.
BODY of Jesus taken down from the cross
It is a child’s handful you are here,The breadth of a man’s finger,And this ivory loin clothSpeaks an interspersal in the day’s work,The carver’s prayer and whimAnd Christ-love.
Memory of you is . . . a blue spear of flower.
Alongside a bold dripping poppy is fire and silk.And they cover you.
I SAW Man, the man-hunter,
And a kerosene can in the other,Hunting with guns, ropes, shackles.I listenedAnd the high cry rang,The high cry of Man, the man-hunter:We’ll get you yet, you sbxyzch!I listened later.The high cry rang:Kill him! kill him! the sbxyzch!In the morning the sun sawTwo butts of something, a smoking rump,And a warning in charred wood:Well, we got…
I LOVE him, I love him, ran the patter of her lips
And she sent him word she loved him so much,So much, and death was nothing; work, art, home,All was nothing if her love for him was not firstOf all; the patter of her lips ran, I love him,I love him; and he knew the doors that openedInto doors and more doors, no end of doors,And…