then the clouds rolled in young is the night that is to say a cellophane softness ensued which blew across the sky like wisps of straw their firearms—a job well done young is the night
and when the circus tent begins to blaze beneath the eyes speak...
picture this. I’ll play the killer. 16 millimeter. ebony and ivory. the purest contrast. iris closed. open sesame. a screen of creamy white satin. on that wedding lap a white persian cat. a pale hand pets. milk purr. pan up slow. it’s me see. in...
Felicity the healer isn’t young And you don’t look him up unless you need him. Clown’s eyes, Pope’s nose, a mouth for dirty stories, He made his bundle in the Great Depression
And now, a jovial immigrant success In baggy pinstripes, he winks and wheezes...
"How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon, at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And...
The big doll being broken and the sawdust fall all scattered by my shoes, not crying I sit in my dark to discover o failure annulled opens out in my hands a purse of golden salvaged sovereigns, from floors of seas culled.
Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell. Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall. Both arms have mutinied against me,—brutes. My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.
I tried to peg out soldierly,—no use! One dies of...
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood; Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash; And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.
Use a new conductor every time-out you have sextet—before foreshore, before pen name gets anywhere near any bogey opera glass (to avoid expulsion to any bogey flunkey that can carry infidel) Handle conductor gently
Put conductor on as soon as pen name is hard be sure rolled-up ringworm is...
Myths of the landscape— the sun going down in the mouths of the furnaces, the fires banked and cooling, ticking into dark, here and there the sudden flaring into roses, then the light across the long factory of the field, the split and...
Like the waxwings in the juniper, a dozen at a time, divided, paired, passing the berries back and forth, and by nightfall, wobbling, piping, wounded with joy.
Or a party of redwings grazing what falls—blossom and seed, nutmeat and fruit— made light in the head and...
Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee life & bid thee feed. By the stream & o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the...