Richard Hugo

Farmer, Dying

for Hank and Nancy Seven thousand acres of grass have faded yellow From his cough. These limp days, his anger, Legend forty years from moon to Stevensville, Lives on, just barely, in a Great

Degrees Of Gray In Philipsburg

You might come here Sunday on a whim. Say your life broke down. The last good kiss You had was years ago. You walk these streets Laid out by the insane, past hotels That

Death Of The Kapowsin Tavern

I can’t ridge it back again from char. Not one board left. Only ash a cat explores And shattered glass smoked black and strung About from the explosion I believe In the reports. The

The Church On Comiaken Hill

for Sydney Pettit The lines are keen against today’s bad sky About to rain. We’re white and understand Why Indians sold butter for the funds To build this church. Four hens and a rooster

Letter To Kizer From Seattle

Dear Condor: Much thanks for that telephonic support From North Carolina when I suddenly went ape In the Iowa tulips. Lord, but I’m ashamed. I was afraid, it seemed, according to the doctor Of

Underwater Autumn

Now the summer perch flips twice and glides A lateral fathom at the first cold rain, The surface near to silver from a frosty hill. Along the weed and grain of log he slides