this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,... this blessing love gives again into our arms.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
A boy's hunched body loved out of a stalk The first song of his happiness, and the song woke... His heart to the darkness and into the sadness of joy.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
There is something joyous in the elegies Of birds. They seem... Caught up in a formal delight, Though the mourning dove whistles of despair.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The appeal to heaven breaks off. The petals begin to fall, in self-forgiveness.... It is a flower. On this mountainside it is dying.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing... beneath them: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I take a wolf's rib and whittle it sharp at both ends... and coil it up and freeze it in blubber and place it out on the fairway of the bears.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
the rest of my days I spend wandering: wondering... what, anyway, was that sticky infusion, that rank flavor of blood, that poetry, by which I lived?LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
you in San Quentin, who wrote, "Being German my hero is Hitler,"... instead of "Sincerely yours," at the end of long, neat-scripted letters demolishing the pre-Raphaelites:LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »