So much rain, so much life like th… of this black August. My sister,… broods in her yellow room and won’… Everything goes to hell; the mount… like a kettle, rivers overrun; sti…
There were still shards of an anci… in those shires of the island wher… their pools of shadow from an olde… surviving from when the landscape… ‘Herefords at Sunset in the valle…
I came up out of the subway and th… people standing on the steps as if… something I didn’t. This was in t… and nuclear fallout. I looked and… was empty, I mean utterly, and I…
The fist clenched round my heart loosens a little, and I gasp brightness; but it tightens again. When have I ever not loved the pain of love? But this has mov…
Those villages stricken with the m… in all of whose ocher streets one… those volcanoes like ashen roses,… of poverty, around whose puckered… selling yellow sulphur stone
There is a shattered palm on this fierce shore, its plumes the rusting helm– et of a dead warrior. Numb Antony, in the torpor
though our longest sun sets at rig… makes but winter arches, it cannot be long before we lie do… have our light in ashes. . . Browne, Urn Burial
Koening knew now there was no one… Entering its brown mouth choking w… and curtained with midges, Koenig… past the abandoned ferry and the f… coated with coal dust. Staying abo…
[for Alix Walcott] Between the vision of the Tourist… Paradise lies the desert where Is… force a rose from the sand. The th… cores the dawn clouds with concent…
Old Eddie’s face, wrinkled with r… Looked like a Mississippi man’s.… Derisive and avuncular at once, Swivelling, fixed me. They’d see… Too many wakes, too many cathouse…
After that hot gospeller has level… I wrote the tale by tallow of a ci… Under a candle’s eye, that smoked… Wanted to tell, in more than wax,… All day I walked abroad among the…
Night, the black summer, simplifie… into a village; she assumes the im… musk of the negro, grows secret as… her alleys odorous with shucked oy… coals of gold oranges, braziers of…
Schizophrenic, wrenched by two sty… one a hack’s hired prose, I earn me exile. I trudge this sickle, mo… tan, burn to slough off
As for that other thing which comes when the eyelid is gla… and the wax gleam from the unwrinkled forehead asks no more questions
The growing idleness of summer gra… With its frail kites of furious bu… Requests the lemonade of simple pr… In scansion gentler than my hammoc… And rituals no more upsetting than…