Or the hands of an invalid. The wan Sun manages to strike such tin glints From the linked ponds that my eyes wince

Their fabulous heyday endless.

Yet the dapple toning his white down To safe gray never grayed his temper.

Them back into her body as petals

You have stuck her kittens outside your window In a sort of cement well Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.

Homunculus, I am ill.

Life, its own vaporous wayfarings.

In the deep convulsion gripping your face, muscles And sinews bunched, victorious, as the cosmic Laugh does away with the unstitching, plaguey wounds

Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins Knotted, caught, survives The old myth of origins

Up Pleasant Street at Main. Poising their shapes Between the snuff and red tar-paper apartments, They mound a summer coolness in our view.

Gull-fouled, a stone hut Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers:

Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

Her ruby dregs.

Open your handbag. What is that bad smell? It is your knitting, busily Hooking itself to itself,

Of digesting what centuries alone digest:

Two enter to tap her sight, a green pair

Stalk without wrinkle,

I wonder Whether you saw them, whether you said Words to rid me of those three ladies

His lids are like the lilac-flower And soft as a moth, his breath.

The shingle booms, bickering under The sea's collapse.

It's a bit burnt-out, A bit of a wild machine, a bit of a mess!

I suck at the paps of darkness.

They would have you sleep in their cabinets, This toe and that toe, a relic.

The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest

Bastard Masturbating a glitter, He wants to be loved. I do not stir.

It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.

There is the moon in the high window. It is over.

Stops us, betrays us; The small grains make room.

I brought my love to bear, and then you died.

To make up for the honey I've taken.

Widow. The dead syllable, with its shadow

A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.

Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.' From that pale mist Ghost swore to priest: 'There sits no higher court

I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.

Poems, Potatoes The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line

They ring true, like good china.

Make their own element. They will not rise, But trundle round the globe Choking the aged and the meek,

Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock, Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.

Red against fifty variants of green, The couch glared out at the prosaic eye.

Yet it never milked any goat, nor dealt cow death And shadows only—cave-mouth bristle beset—

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—

A concatenation of rainbows.

Through fen and farmland walking

You're

I used to pray to recover you.

Kindness picking up the bright pieces Of Christ in the faces of rodents,

The moon is let go, like a dead thing.

The once-known way becoming

Shadows.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.