bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine–
like no leaf that ever was–
edge the bare garden.
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Upon the table in their bowl
of yellow sprays, green spikesof leaves, red pointed petalsand curled heads of blueand white among the litterof the forks and crumbs and platesthe flowers remain composed.Coolly their colloquy continuesabove the coffee and loud talkgrown frail as vaudeville.
When I am alone I am happy.
flecked and splashed and woundwith color. The crimson phalloiof the sassafras leaveshang crowded before mein shoals on the heavy branches.When I reach my doorstepI am greeted bythe happy shrieks of my childrenand my heart sinks.I am crushed.Are not my children as dear to meas falling leaves ormust one become stupidto grow older?It seems much as…
At ten AM the young housewife
the wooden walls of her husband’s house.I pass solitary in my car.Then again she comes to the curbto call the ice-man, fish-man, and standsshy, uncorseted, tucking instray ends of hair, and I compare herto a fallen leaf.The noiseless wheels of my carrush with a crackling sound overdried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.
are the desolate, dark weeks
equals the stupidity of man.The year plunges into nightand the heart plungeslower than nightto an empty, windswept placewithout sun, stars or moonbut a peculiar light as of thoughtthat spins a dark fire –whirling upon itself until,in the cold, it kindlesto make a man aware of nothingthat he knows, not lonelinessitself – Not a ghost butwould…
If I when my wife is sleeping
are sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdance naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand singing softly to myself:‘I am lonely, lonely.I was born to be lonely,I am best so! ‘If I admire my arms, my face,my shoulders, flanks, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—Who…