I call them beautiful,
and I wonder where they are going.
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IN a Yiddish eating place on Rivington Street … faces … coffee spots … children kicking at the night stars with bare toes from bare buttocks.
Here the children snozzle at milk bottles, children who have never seen a cow.Here the stranger wonders how so many people remember where they keep home fires.
BEES and a honeycomb in the dried head of a horse in a pasture corner-a skull in the tall grass and a buzz and a buzz of the yellow honey-hunters.
(over the earth and under the sun.)Let the bees go honey-hunting with yellow blur of wings in the dome of my head, in the rumbling, singing arch of my skull.Let there be wings and yellow dust and the drone of dreams of honey-who loses and remembers?-who keeps and forgets?In a blue sheen of moon over…
Jimmy Wimbleton listened a first week in June.
Filled the arch of night with young bullfrog songs.Infinite mathematical metronomic croaks rose and spoke,Rose and sang, rose in a choir of puzzles.They made his head ache with riddles of music.They rested his head with beaten cadence.Jimmy Wimbledon listened.
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.
I DON’T blame the kettle drums-they are hungry.
And the harring booming bass drums-they are hungriest of all.. . .The howling spears of the Northwest die down.The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song.A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.