Many journalists, and not many friends

Around the encumbered tomb

Around the brilliant panoply

Beneath the dreadful moon

Many shattered bulbs, and men

Attend sepulchral cues

And when sepulchral rings the wind

The scattered glass will move

The motorcade and all its kin

Away from nascent mound

Will glide along like rivers

Like the dew upon the ground

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I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d

a better question

In the end, I suppose the better question is: how does the ocean feel about us?


I emerged from my door and carried into my present moment the quivering skeleton of a whom this poem is for, a what is trying to be accomplished. We are the escape artists. We point the way out. We pa

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