#Americans #Suicide #Women
The telegram says you have gone aw… And left our bankrupt circus on it… There is nothing more for me to sa… The maestro gives the singing bird… And they buy tickets for the tropi…
Love set you going like a fat gold… The midwife slapped your footsoles… Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your a… In a drafty museum, your nakedness
What is this, behind this veil, is… It is shimmering, has it breasts,… I am sure it is unique, I am sure… When I am quiet at my cooking I f… ‘Is this the one I am too appear…
The photographic chamber of the ey… records bare painted walls, while… lays the chromium nerves of plumbi… such poverty assaults the ego; cau… naked in the merely actual room,
In the rectory garden on his eveni… Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold… In black Novemeber. After a slidi… Dew stood in chill sweat on each s… Each thorn; spiring from wet earth…
I walked the unwalked garden of ro… In the public park; at home felt t… Of a single rose present to imagin… The garden’s remainder in full pai… The stone lion-head set in the wal…
Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapabl…
They are always with us, the thin… Meager of dimension as the gray pe… On a movie—screen. They Are unreal, we say: It was only in a movie, it was onl…
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat… The fat Sacrifices its opacity. . . . A window, holy gold. The fire makes it precious,
It is ten years, now, since we row… The sun flamed straight down that… That summer we wore black glasses… We were always crying, in our spar… In the two, huge, white, handsome…
Open-mouthed, the baby god Immense, bald, though baby-headed, Cried out for the mother’s dug. The dry volcanoes cracked and spli… Sand abraded the milkless lip.
On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feat… I do not expect a miracle Or an accident
A squeal of brakes. Or is it a birth cry? And here we are, hung out over the… Uncle, pants factory Fatso, milli… And you out cold beside me in your…
I came before the water— Colorists came to get the Good of the Cape light that scour… Sand grit to sided crystal And buffs and sleeks the blunt hul…
Clocks belled twelve. Main street… Than its suburb of woods: nimbus’… Lit, but unpeopled, held its windo… Of wedding pastries, Diamond rings, potted roses, fox-s…