My mother has your shotgun. One man, wide In the mind, and tendoned like a grizzly, pried To his trigger-digit, pal. He should not have done that, but, I guess, He didn’t feel the
Fresh-shaven, past months & a picture in New York Of Beard Two, I did have Three took off. Well. . Shadow & act, shadow & act, Better get white or you’ get whacked, Or
There is an eye, there was a slit. Nights walk, and confer on him fear. The strangler tree, the dancing mouse Confound his vision; then they loosen it. Henry widens. How did Henry House
I am the little man who smokes & smokes. I am the girl who does know better but. I am the king of the pool. I am so wise I had my mouth sewn
Seedy Henry rose up shy in de world & shaved & swung his barbells, duded Henry up And p. a.’d poor thousands of persons on topics of grand Moment to Henry, ah to those
When worst got things, how was you? Steady on? Wheedling, or shockt her & You have been bad to your friend, Whom not you writing to. You have not listened. A pelican of lies
Some good people, daring & subtle voices And their tense faces, as I think of it I see sank underground. I see. My radar digs. I do not dig. Cool their flushing blood, them
A Small Dream It was only a small dream of the Golden World, Now you trot off to bed. I’ll turn the machine off, You’ve danced & trickt us enough. Unintelligible whines & imprecations,
Dapples my floor the eastern sun, my house faces north, I have nothing to say except that it dapples my floor And it would dapple me If I lay on that floor, as-well-forthwith I
Plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot, Fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny, Glowing fire-red, Succulent, and on the whole becoming what Man wants. I crack my final claw singly, Wind up the grave,
Three ‘coons come at his garbage. He be cross, I figuring porcupine & took Sir poker Unbarring Mr door, & then screen door. Ah, but the little ‘coon, Hardly a foot (not counting tail)
Foes I sniff, when I have less to shout Or murmur. Pals alone enormous sounds Downward & up bring real. Loss, deaths, terror. Over & out, Beloved: thanks for cabbage on my wounds: I’ll
Through the forest, followed, Henry made his silky way, No chickadee was troubled, small moss smiled On his swift passage. But there were those ahead when at midday They met in a clearing and
If we sang in the wood (and Death is a German expert) While snows flies, chill, after so frequent knew So many all nothing, For lead & fire, it’s not we would assert Particulars,
Filling her compact & delicious body With chicken páprika, she glanced at me Twice. Fainting with interest, I hungered back And only the fact of her husband & four other people Kept me from
Page 3 of 10«12345...10...»Last »