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In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said: "Is it good, friend?" "It is bitter-bitter," he answered; "But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart." |
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They shut me up in Prose As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet Because they liked me "still" |
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The carpet was thick with sand and rotted black in the corners. It curled green in on itself like the bottom junk waves. Someone had dragged a child's mattress to the center of the room. It dipped deeply down in the middle with scuff marks along the edges. Swee dipped deeply down too, curved in the spine, like soap returned to a dish. As she spoke, that fine pollen hair stuck to her lips. "Yeahh." Her eyes were closed. Shawna fished for damp towels, made a nest on the floor besides Swee. She remembered child baths at night, turban from a towel and one across the mouth too; and her mother would say, look, beware, it's the mysterious lady from the East. And when she closed her eyes, she saw Danny, she saw Carmichael, heard Oliver Neal-Scott singing "little groovers take the wheel |
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I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell! They'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! |
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The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky: a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,—a colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of black drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was “the likeness of a kingly crown;” what it diademed was “the shape which shape had none.” |
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Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, We passed the school, where children strove Or rather, be passed us; We paused before house that seemed Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each |
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Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight And you, my father, there on the sad height, |
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