#Americans #Suicide #Women #XXCentury
By the gate with star and moon Worked into the peeled orange wood The bronze snake lay in the sun Inert as a shoelace; dead But pliable still, his jaw
Sky and sea, horizon-hinged Tablets of blank blue, couldn’t, Clapped shut, flatten this man out… The great gods, Stone-Head, Claw… Winded by much rock-bumping
I made a fire; being tired Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle When I came too close to the wast… What did they know that I didn’t?
You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo…
Gold mouths cry with the green you… certainty of the bronze boy remembering a thousand autumns and how a hundred thousand leaves came sliding down his shoulder bla…
That grandiose colossus who Stood astride The envious assaults of sea (Essaying, wave by wave, Tide by tide,
Stars are dropping thick as stones… Picket of trees whose silhouette i… Than the dark of the sky because i… The woods are a well. The stars d… They seem large, yet they drop, an…
(I) This is the sea, then, this great… How the sun’s poultice draws on my… Electrifyingly—colored sherbets, s… By pale girls, travel the air in s…
The night is only a sort of carbon… Blueblack, with the much-poked per… Letting in the light, peephole aft… A bonewhite light, like death, beh… Under the eyes of the stars and th…
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Blameless as daylight I stood loo… At a field of horses, necks bent,… Tails streaming against the green Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was st… White chapel pinnacles over the ro…
Old man, you surface seldom. Then you come in with the tide’s coming When seas wash cold, foam— Capped: white hair, white beard,
I’m through with this grand lookin… where adjectives play croquet with… methinks I shall absent me for a w… from rhetoric of these rococo quee… Item: chuck out royal rigmarole of…
The courage of the shut mouth, in… The line pink and quiet, a worm, b… There are black disks behind it, t… And the outrage of a sky, the line… The disks revolve, they ask to be…
Take the general mumble, blunt as the faceless gut of an anonymous clam, vernacular as the strut of a slug or a small preamble