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sugary planets
whose influence won for him A life baptized in
no...
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for a ...
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sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly,
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of gray mirrors.
scalding, red topography That will put her heart out like an only eye.
Widow.
The dead syllable, with its shadow Of an echo,
Fusty remembrances,
coiled-spring stair That opens at the top
onto nothing a...
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Widow.
bitter spider sits
in the center of her loveless spokes.
Death is the dress she wears,
The moth-face of her husband, moonwhite and ill,
Circles her like a prey she’d love to kill
Widow: that great, vacant estate!
Widow,
the compassionate trees bend in,
The trees of loneliness, the trees...
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A widow resembles them, a shadow-thing,
Blinded to all but the gray, spiritless room It looks in on, and must go on looking in on.
Stars are dropping
thick as stones
into the twiggy Picke...
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The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.
Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
The Big Dipper is my only familiar. I miss Orion and Cassiopeia’s Chair.
what if the sky here is no different, And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves ?
The few I am used to are plain and durable;
I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth Or much company,
They are too puritan and solitary for that
There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
I shut my eyes And drink the small night chill like news of home.
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but a...
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Her O-mouth grieves at the world;
yours is unaffected,
And your first gift is making stone out ...
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I wake to a ma...
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Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
Rejections of her work?
