1765
A call in the street in winter,
Unseasonably garbed
In the verge of spring's creatures'
Voices,
Tastes of years.
Unforeseen not unexpected
Is some score winters gone.

1764

1763

1762

1761

1760

1759

1758
I do not represent
Or signify
One thing beyond this small space held;
No voice to sound
To who would hear,
No eye to sight
What cannot be seen.
From a piece of time
Does the least feather of a pigeon depend,
And my mortal soul,
That spires could touch
If I would them,
With every else will end
In the merest trough of matter,
A once of nothing.

1757

1756

1755

1754

1753

1752
Tho the wind sat in my sail's shoulder
I would not sail being not
Of sails.
What wind that'd snap a canvas
Stir an instant fixed?

1751

1750

1749

1748
With what animal fervor
Is lust's object chased
With sly emblems of love:
So the iron hot
National Geographic worm
Of lava taints
The vast press of coolness with its blood red
Transactional variation
Of something both shaped and shaping.

1747

1746

1745

1744

1743

1742