Robert Duncan
My Mother Would Be a Falconress
My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, Would fly to bring back From the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, Where I dream in
The Song of the Borderguard
The man with his lion under the shed of wars Sheds his belief as if he shed tears. The sound of words waits – A barbarian host at the borderline of sense. The enamord
Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow
as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, That is not mine, but is a made place, That is mine, it is so near to the heart, An eternal pasture folded in