I had expected the dumb scorn of the world. Seeing that I had chosen to decline the wine cups and the proffered hands of the world, and even disgraced myself in the eyes of love coming cynically with dollars and gum. I am not such a fool but I should have been prepared To meet the averted long silence of friends.
Embryonic snarls herald in lover’s ear; panther and viper like a traveller coming leafing the ice channels of winter roads. with the warm and wired pattern of their bloods. As it were, the eye locates its zoo and the new captives catch old echoes, reprint the stamp of “very good” at school. and cages now crestfallen eagles are, the bars of wings huddled to the side, and the limp glint of lidless eye. curses the fingers of passersby whose torments of cheap peanuts shower the bird’s heart like bullets. The amorous alligator, glutted with lust, sinks its breast in the […]
The leaves are gone from the tree, Eddying. We too, wind-cold, with the leaves Revolving. We that were green in the sun Have the yellow of death in our veins. The tree is gaunt in the star-shells, Silver and black, grotesque. And the voice of the wind is a myth In the shouts of the hate. We know of our end— The fear is over for us. But we think and we think– O God! Will there be Spring again?
The planes seem to crash into my room. I feel their wings lurch In torment of darkness And silver; they leave their shadow Flat for an instant, then run Across the floor, like mice. One long, little shadow of death. Sweep, dip, roar in the sudden Zipped bass of them Above my roof, and I crouch down. I am nothing but the seed of fear, Crouching under the plane’s white Ribbed bellies. They are dark and silver in sunlight. Yet in my room they become Little shadows, scimetar slim as Fugitive fear, little shadows left For an instant at my […]
This is the hour When the black dog is eating moonstones and on the dark river gipsies are singing of moons made of blood. This is the hour when moths speak of insistence to a flame of white silence when clocks press the unwanted minutes into caps of metal. This is the hour when Proserpina forgets to cup the moon in her hands and love is a flower of paper under glass and dust.