Donald Hall quotes

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In football they measure forty-yard sprints. Nobody runs forty yards in basketball. Maybe you run the ninety-four feet of the cour ...
Sweet death, small son, our instrument
Of immortality,
Your cries and hungers document
Our bodily decay.
For a hundred and fifty years, in the pasture of dead horses,
roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs
...
Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill
of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.
He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
...
I was afraid the waking arm would break
From the loose earth and rub against his eyes
...
Chipmunks jump, and
Greensnakes slither.
Rather burst than
Not be with her.
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