Danse Russe
If when my wife is sleeping And the baby and Kathleen Are sleeping And the sun is a flame-white disc In silken mists Above shining trees,- If I in my north room Dance naked,
The Term
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was Rolling with the Wind slowly over And over in The street as A car drove down Upon it
The Great Figure
Among the rain And lights I saw the figure 5 In gold On a red Firetruck Moving Tense Unheeded To gong clangs Siren howls And wheels rumbling Through the dark city.
Item
This, with a face Like a mashed blood orange That suddenly Would get eyes And look up and scream War! War! Clutching her Thick, ragged coat A piece of hat Broken shoes War! War!
Approach Of Winter
The half-stripped trees Struck by a wind together, Bending all, The leaves flutter drily And refuse to let go Or driven like hail Stream bitterly out to one side And fall Where the salvias,
Muier
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life Already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm,-so lonely And with so many field mice In the long grass- And
Love Song
I lie here thinking of you:- The stain of love Is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow It eats into the leaves, Smears with saffron The horned branched the lean Heavily Against a smooth
The Late Singer
Here it is spring again And I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on his breast Has been at his cadenzas for two weeks
Berket And The Stars
A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of Student poverty! One best day out of ten good ones. Berket in high spirits-“Ha, oranges! Let’s have one!” And he made to snatch
The Poem
It’s all in The sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should Be a song-made of Particulars, wasps, A gentian-something Immediate, open Scissors, a lady’s Eyes-waking Centrifugal, centripetal.
The Defective Record
Cut the bank for the fill. Dump sand Pumped out of the river Into the old swale Killing whatever was There before-including Even the muskrats. Who did it? There’s the guy. Him in the
Dedication For A Plot Of Ground
This plot of ground Facing the waters of this inlet Is dedicated to the living presence of Emily Dickinson Wellcome Who was born in England; married; Lost her husband and with Her five year