Almost perfect there, Her finger tracing The fainted maid Unavailing, This palest miss Blonder than sunshine-- Unicorn twists Of braids trail fire Down her blood-velveteen Flat dress-back-- Her hand the maiden's, Raised to bring back Life to the trapped beast-- No longer Death's.
Her sourceless smile arrives In intimate glitters, Her lips suavely parting In intenser shine. Above, eve's lone lamp, the moon Removes a mood. His hand upon her shoulder Intends a sense Between them, attar of essences Sincerely sieved, Intends a sense more intense, Interior and profound.
The orchid sits in its mat of moss its laddered neck click-clipped by small claws to slim rigid wire upholding a purple triple knot of blossoms velvet open as the mouths of Chinese lions sculpted so loud
Soul's a moment's melody (As Mallarme reported). Each breath is every sigh recorded, One tear is all the sea. Lucid glycerins distill, intend, All God may mean by being: Loving nearly to the pain of seeing, Forgiving even the end. Less than Time attempts is this "I"-- Burnt between the matchstick's start And pumiced embers morosely blown-- Condensed intense in each spark of eye. It is a malady a moment, This soul--and then, neant.
A butterfly pinned to a windmill. Blase laserings of watery light. The adze of an angry word. A cannibal dining on a sainted eye. A man battling his inner hatchets, Himself a hollow cello.
A guttering wind going round Beats the windowed walls Of the Brooklyn Aquarium Where swart, flared fish going round Flourish Like flowery candy in a dish. Crowds of slackmouthed onlookers watch Eight slack-legged octopi watch Crowds of onlookers going round There In Brooklyn's dainty air. In a world of choices, Such variorum of voices, To continually choose To choose not to choose-- To neigh nay to no And sneeze nyet to yes While the crowd confines Our going round and around, Mutes the vocus of our natures. So many colors Going round and around, Within others, and ourselves within, While frenzied fish bash The circular glass Unhelped by any wind.
Life may be magnanimous, The sleek making way of water reeds Before a smooth canoe. It may be. Or life perchance is tragic, A limitless march, march, march To the restriction of a pinnacle. It may be. These two modes of life Are one, in sum. The tragic will navigating North, The lazy wanderer wading South. What happens to the one, Happens exactly to the other. Death, or some other bother. It may be. When, in this light, we look At ourselves, we disappear Into the necessitous intimate Staring there in the mirror. It may be.
Snow loiters coyly in scraps, And winter lies Unremembered. The edges of shadows at dawn, Tinged blue, Recall a greater darkness Of which they are the moiety. When summer arrives at last, When green spring is in the grave, When summer comes out From under heavy covers, Quilts over-laden with imagery, When summer leaves, and snow Feels bright in autumn air-- Will you remember the summer days, Days we burned through together?
Strolling in a random mood, random clouds Disclose a sky unpatterned, whereon I brood "How life behaves, how the world is made!" Striding hills disclose apportioned woods Brushed bare of bush--a dell within the wood Discloses its roughened tongue of telling green; Kneeling in the roughened grass, politely parted, Discloses dandruffed jimson, butterweed and chives; And one long flower's uttering bud, mussed and tussled, Discloses saffron tassels, with brilliant pollens laid; And pollen's golden wand, waved and handled, Discloses slyly a tensile spine where florid saps Flow slow along the intruding thumb, and stop.