#Americans #Suicide #Women #XXCentury
'Tea leaves I’ve given up, And that crooked line On the queen’s palm Is no more my concern. On my black pilgrimage
Once I was ordinary: Sat by my father’s bean tree Eating the fingers of wisdom. The birds made milk. When it thundered I hid under a f…
They are the last romantics, these… Upside—down hearts of light tippin… And the fingers, taken in by their… Grown milky, almost clear, like th… It is touching, the way they’ll ig…
It beguiles— This little Odyssey In pink and lavender Over a surface of gently– Graded turquoise tiles
Here in this valley of discrete ac… We have not mountains, but mounts,… To the Adirondacks, to northern M… Themselves mere rocky hillocks to… Still, they’re out best mustering…
Now we, returning from the vaulted… Of our colossal sleep, come home t… A tall metropolis of catacombs Erected down the gangways of our m… Green alleys where we reveled have…
I’m a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf’s big with its yeasty ri…
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
Spry, wry, and gray as these Marc… Percy bows, in his blue peajacket,… He is recuperating from something… The narcissi, too, are bowing to s… It rattles their stars on the gree…
We came over the moor—top Through air streaming and green—li… Stone farms foundering in it, Valleys of grass altering In a light neither dawn
An old beast ended in this place: A monster of wood and rusty teeth. Fire smelted his eyes to lumps Of pale blue vitreous stuff, opaqu… As resin drops oozed from pine bar…
Compelled by calamity’s magnet They loiter and stare as if the ho… Burnt—out were theirs, or as if th… Some scandal might any minute ooze From a smoke—choked closet into li…
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.
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?
Nightfall, cold eye——neither dishe… These goatish tragedians who Hawk misfortune like figs and chic… And, plaintiff against each day, d… Nature’s partial, haphazard thumb.