She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse.

When burns and brands that yellow gaze? I hurl my heart to halt his pace,

Darkens and tarnishes and when The balled Pulp of your heart

And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:

In my eye, nor seek

flays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw;

A point of exclamation marks that sky In ringing orange like a stellar carrot.

At our feet, the weed-mustachioed sea Exhibits its glaucous silks,

Into salt seas.

Says she is a man, not a woman.

Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

Whatever I see I swallow immediately

Prospect Among orange-tile rooftops and chimney pots the fen fog slips, gray as rats,

Merely by its continuing Attach her to heaven.

Neither nourishes nor heals.

A machine to breathe and beat forever.

Whereby one hires a demon.

It will work without thinking,

Point Shirley

Open your hand.

The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets.

Size. The cries of scavenging gulls sound thin In the traffic of planes

Who wakes with darkness and till dawn works hard

This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if Caught in a hazardous medium that might Merely by its continuing

Of fatigue, I shall Patch together a content Of sorts.

Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected, And your first gift is making stone out of everything I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,

Weighting the pale sky with a solider color.

A series of weddings.

Your shelled bed I remember.

As a greenly escaped idiot, Buying wine, bread,