from Her Scant State
black velveteen garden at a distance
radical advances in ancient expanses
having to give up all this false position
to be liberal after luncheon, a picture
modernized, weather-fretted walls
in blurred gleams—apart, distracted,
ostensible, mistaken—a bitterness to
garden these words prelude sequel
In a low tone. “I’ll leave alone.” You change color. In spite of evident husband I bring you absolve from observe, cease to from startled. Is a pleasure or a pain heavier. Literally. See the spread of your remark, “It’s better (than) (since) (bade) goodbye.” Heart wintering in an artificial garden. I think dying. Is dying. The quick effect of words.
war overdarkened childhood ripening
while the author of my faculties flinched
like Caliban drifting right out to sea I wish to I wish you I wish
ingenuity of interpretation radiance wrapped up in drowning
a story about the girl incoherent desperado
if I must tell the truth
Of duplicity, faith, delusion. In the afternoon of her husband’s real fact. Livelier motions she hardly knew. Never dreamed vista of a multiplied life, dead wall at the end. And judge. And choose. And earthward. “Put the lights out.” The dusk lifted corners. Impenetrably. Her own mind—she was sure of that. As the disk of the moon when it was masked.
a few words
wanted to do more than look
crumbs of the feast
how meager her senses fortune-hunters
The summer reality. Distinct. Egotistic. Precautions make me ashamed. What women are expected to be—my best friend, my last pleasure. A kind of intellectual gaiety, legs crossed. The whole American world resisted you. You’re so modern, so modern. We shall always be delighted to give evidence of that fact.
fallacy finer than a Greek bas-relief
had never been more blue less
I who am not innocent. Not concealed under a surface, not shut up, annexed, achieved, interpreted, but framed in the doorway of nationality, the empty aperture, detained in an immense winter evening—a rupture.