To Be Written On The Mirror In Whitewash
I live only here, between your eyes and you, But I live in your world. What do I do? Collect no interest otherwise what I can; Above all I am not that staring man.
Love Lies Sleeping
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks That cross the sky from cinder star to star, coupling the ends of streets to trains of light. Now draw us into daylight in our beds; And clear
Manners
For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me As we sat on the wagon seat, “Be sure to remember to always Speak to everyone you meet.” We met a stranger on foot.
Large Bad Picture
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or Some northerly harbor of Labrador, Before he became a schoolteacher A great-uncle painted a big picture. Receding for miles on either side Into a flushed, still sky
Sonnet (1928)
I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of
Arrival At Santos
Here is a coast; here is a harbor; Here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery: Impractically shaped and who knows? self-pitying mountains, Sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery, With a
Lines Written In The Fannie Farmer Cookbook
You won’t become a gourmet* cook By studying our Fannie’s book Her thoughts on Food & Keeping House Are scarcely those of Lévi-Strauss. Nevertheless, you’ll find, Frank dear, The basic elements** are here. And
Questions of Travel
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams Hurry too rapidly down to the sea, And the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops Makes them spill over the sides in soft
While Someone Telephones
Wasted, wasted minutes that couldn’t be worse, Minutes of a barbaric condescension. Stare out the bathroom window at the fir-trees, At their dark needles, accretions to no purpose Woodenly crystallized, and where two fireflies
Roosters
At four o’clock In the gun-metal blue dark We hear the first crow of the first cock Just below The gun-metal blue window And immediately there is an echo Off in the distance, Then
The Weed
I dreamed that dead, and meditating, I lay upon a grave, or bed, (at least, some cold and close-built bower). In the cold heart, its final thought Stood frozen, drawn immense and clear, Stiff
Cirque D'Hiver
Across the floor flits the mechanical toy, Fit for a king of several centuries back. A little circus horse with real white hair. His eyes are glossy black. He bears a little dancer on
Giant Toad
I am too big. Too big by far. Pity me. My eyes bulge and hurt. They are my one great beauty, even So. They see too much, above, below. And yet, there is not
Cape Breton
Out on the high “bird islands,” Ciboux and Hertford, The razorbill auks and the silly-looking puffins all stand With their backs to the mainland In solemn, uneven lines along the cliff’s brown grass-frayed edge,
The Armadillo
For Robert Lowell This is the time of year When almost every night The frail, illegal fire balloons appear. Climbing the mountain height, Rising toward a saint Still honored in these parts, The paper