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Environment | I love to go out in late Septemberamong the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberriesto eat blackberries for breakfast,the stalks very prickly, a penaltythey earn for knowing the black artof blackberry-making; and as I stand among themlifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berriesfall almost unbidden to my tongue,as w... |
Environment | I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon! |
Environment | I own a solace shut within my heart,A garden full of many a quaint delightAnd warm with drowsy, |
Environment | I shall build me a house where the larkspur blooms In a narrow glade in an alder wood, Where the sunset shadows make violet glooms, And a whip-poor-will calls in eerie mood.I shall lie on a bed |
Environment | I wake tored sand Isleep herecoral brickhooghaan Iwalk thinrabbit brushtrails side-step earlyautumntarantulas pick desertwhite flowerson full days Iinhale fe-male rainI stop wheelsslow sheepbounce dropsheep shitacross highwayspotholedme I grassnothinghere I meta-grass I sleep-walk grassesopen eyes toblue corn skyto coo... |
Environment | I watch a woman take a photoof a flowering tree with her phone.A future where no one will look at it,perpetual trembling which wasn’tand isn’t. I have taken photos of a sunset.In person, “wow” “beautiful”but the picture can only beas interesting as a word repeated until emptied.I think I believe |
Environment | I will get me to the woodWhere the gods walk garlanded in wisteria,By the silver-blue flood move others with ivory cars.There come forth many maidens to gather grapes for the leopards, my friend.For there are leopards drawing the cars. |
Environment | I. IN WINTER Myself Pale mornings, and I rise. Still Morning Snow air--my fingers curl. Awakening New snow, O pine of dawn! Winter Echo Thin air! My mind is gone. The Hunter Run! In the |
Environment | I.It could be snow, the way it floats, or ash from ancient volcanoes awake and exploding. But insteadit’s seeds wrapped in something like down, released by the thousands from cottonwood trees. If they land near water they growbut mostly they don’t.The sun starts to set and the air turns the color of |
Environment | I'd lean close, my ear to her whisper and roar, her tongue scattered with stars. She'd belt her brassy voice over the waves' backbeat. No one sings better than her. Would she ever bite the inside of her cheek? Would she yell at the moon to quit tugging at her hem, or would she whistle, drop her blue dress |
Environment | I'd like to see the tree as it once stood before me, childhood, the branch and leaf a single form of transport, ecstasy shaking my body I give to the leaves, the leaves return, my stare all interchange.But that was when I had a sky to name since I had a belief in constancy like everyone. |
Environment | If tired of trees I seek again mankind, Well I know where to hie me—in the dawn, To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.There amid lolling juniper reclined,Myself unseen, I see in white defined Far off the homes of men, and farther still The graves of men on |
Environment | ILike a gondola of green scented fruits |
Environment | In spring of youth it was my lotTo haunt of the wide earth a spotThe which I could not love the less—So lovely was the loneliness |
Environment | In the Sixties Nabokov switchedfrom ink to eraser- topped pencilon index cardsa box of cards for Adaa boxof cards for dreams whose "curious features"include "erotic tenderness and heart-rending enchantment"in one draft he traded "stillness and heat"for "silence, a burning" |
Environment | In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing t... |
Environment | into the smitingsky tensewithblend ingthetreeleaps a stiffened exquisite iwait |
Environment | Is it agony that has bleached them to such beauty? Their standis at the edge of our property—white spires like fingers, through which the deer emerge with all the tentative grace of memory. Your fatherloved these trees. When you try to imagine his childhood, it is all oldfootage, in |
Environment | It didn't weep the way a willow should. Planted all alone in the middle of the field by the bachelor who sold our house to us, shoulder height when our daughter was born, it grew eight feet a year until it blocked the view through the first-, then the second- story windows, its straggly canopy obstructing our |
Environment | It was a clandestine winter of television; We were so tired of the fashion blogs.The moist world was doing what it could To think at pinkish dusk.I say this from the position of having already been emptied That summer I heard the chora in the beergarden.Vitality, monstrosity, sociability, anarchy—these are standing in ... |
Environment | It was time that was the tenderness—eden, as it isin need of and tolerating no history—thus no tracks of conventionalism in our shared patched boot and oversoul pasts—just new snow, crossed through like uncommon winter birds do—making paths invisible but to few |
Environment | It's a year almost that I have not seen her: Oh, last summer green things were greener, Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.It's surely summer, for there's a swallow: Come one swallow, his mate will follow, The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.Oh happy swallow whose mate will follow O'er height, o'er hollow! I'd |
Environment | Late evening, metals bolstering our houses finish acting like anything but themselves. Bauxite, copper, rodswe bored into under aegis of trees: forgetting injected fluid, cracks in unwitting steel. Years later, a landmineexcavates us—crack-seal veins bubbling up, flaring out—formations pressurized from inside. Silica l... |
Environment | Like animals moving dailythrough the same open field,it should be easier to distinguishlight from dark, fabricationsfrom memory, rain on a sliverof grass from dew appearingovernight. In these momentsof desperation, a sentenceserves as a halo, the moonhidden so the stars eclipseour daily becoming. You thinkit should be ... |
Environment | Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,Like a fair lady at her casement, shinesThe evening star, the star of love and rest!And then anon she doth herself divestOf all her radiant garments, and reclinesBehind the sombre screen of yonder pines,With slumber and soft dreams |
Environment | Lovers of beauty laugh at this grey town, Where dust lies thick on ragged curb-side trees,And compass-needle streets lead up and down And lose themselves in empty prairie seas.Here is no winding scented lane, no hill Crowned with a steepled church, no garden wallOf old grey stone |
Environment | Meanwhile, a splash of blue paint falls from SUBJECT 199's bucket, traverses the sidewalk, travels down the one-way street, colors the roads, the signposts, and the streetlights in the new true hue and forks into a hundred paths that lead to a thousand houses, coating the fences and gates, blanketing |
Environment | Memory—died August 3, 2015. Thedeath was not sudden but slowly over adecade. I wonder if, when people die,they hear a bell. Or if they tastesomething sweet, or if they feel a knifecutting them in half, dragging throughthe flesh like sheet cake. The caretakerwho witnessed my mother’s death quit. She holds the |
Environment | Mine are the night and morning, The pits of air, the gulf of space, The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, The innumerable days.I hid in the solar glory, I am dumb in the pealing song, I rest on the pitch of the torrent, In slumber I am strong.No numbers have counted my tallies, No tribes my house |
Environment | More than the fuchsia funnels breaking outof the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’salmost obscene display of cherry limbs shovingtheir cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slatesky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the treesthat really gets to me. When all the shock of whiteand taffy, the world’s baubles and |
Environment | Much have I spoken of the faded leaf; |
Environment | My hands are murder-red. Many a plump headdrops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripeto bursting, they might be hearts, matchingthe blackbird’s wing-fleck. Gripped to a reedhe shrieks his ko-ka-ree in the next field.He’s left his peck in some juicy cheeks, whenat first blush and mostly white, they showedstreaks |
Environment | My words are dust. I who would build a star, I who would touch the heel of the white sun; Staggering up the inaccessible sky, I look upon the dust.The stainless clouds go mounting In shining spires; And a little heap of dust Are my desires.Yet, dwelling long upon these peaks Unchained upon the flickering western sky, I... |
Environment | Neither your face, Higera, nor your deedsAre known to me; and death these many yearsRetains you, under grass or forest-mould.Only a rivulet bears your name: it runsDeep-hidden in undeciduous redwood shadeAnd trunks by age made holy, streaming downA valley of the Santa Lucian hills.There have I stopped, and though the |
Environment | New fronds unfurl from the jointsof older ones, like fists slow to open in forgiveness but will inevitably inforgetfulness—that kind of newness green as the green of new ferns snaking fastup the old hosts’ throats turning brownbeneath the ever-creep without a sound (to us— all we hear’s waves). |
Environment | No gate, no main entrance, no ticket, no ranger. Not farFrom where Frost once raised chickens and ill-fated children, nearWhere the Old Man’s glacier-hewn face though bolstered toIts godlike roost by rods and turnbuckles slidFrom our fledgling millennium into oblivion,You can cross the Pemigewasset on a bridgeThen, com... |
Environment | No melancholy days are these! Not where the maple changing stands,Not in the shade of fluttering oaks, Nor in the bandsOf twisting vines and sturdy shrubs, Scarlet and yellow, green and brown,Falling, or swinging on their stalks, Is Sorrow’s crown.The sparkling fields of dewy grass, Wo... |
Environment | No wind, no bird. The river flames like brass.On either side, smitten as with a spellOf silence, brood the fields. In the deep grass,Edging the dusty roads, lie as they fellHandfuls of shriveled leaves from tree and bush.But ’long the orchard fence and at the gate,Thrusting their saffron torches through |
Environment | Nothing is so beautiful as spring— |
Environment | November’s days are thirty:November’s earth is dirty,Those thirty days, from first to last;And the prettiest thing on ground are the pathsWith morning and evening hobnails dinted,With foot and wing-tip overprintedOr separately charactered,Of little beast and little bird.The fields are mashed by sheep, the roadsMake the... |
Environment | O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped! The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped; And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among The yellow gourds, which fr... |
Environment | O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turnDismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urnOf death! Far sooner in midsummer tireThe streams than under ice. June could not hireHer roses to forego the strength they learnIn |
Environment | O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!Thy mists that roll and rise!Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sagAnd all but cry with colour! That gaunt cragTo crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!Long |
Environment | Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowednose of mine! what will you not be smelling?What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,always indiscriminate, always unashamed,and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggledpoplars: a festering pulp on the wet earthbeneath them. With what deep thirstwe quicken our desires... |
Environment | Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year.Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy |
Environment | On deck, beneath the awning, I dozing lay and yawning; It was the gray of dawning, Ere yet the sun arose; And above the funnel's roaring, And the fitful wind's deploring, I heard the cabin snoring With |
Environment | On summer afternoons I sit Quiescent by you in the park And idly watch the sunbeams gild And tint the ash-trees' bark.Or else I watch the squirrels frisk And chaffer in the grassy lane |
Environment | Only one grass whistles out the tooth of my horse And the moon drops fast behind the fences And the wheat lolls back And waits for deathI could see the sea from where I was My mesh hat shone blueThe jagged cheek of Gibraltar Solid, sucked in the mouth and never melting Where my dog’s warm |
Environment | Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her. The summer mornings begin inch by inch while we sleep, and walk with us later as long-legged beauty through the dirty streets. |
Environment | Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day I paused and said, "I will turn back from here. No, I will go on farther—and we shall see." The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went down. The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tall slim |
Environment | Perhaps the purpose of leaves is to conceal the verticality of trees which we notice in December as if for the first time: row after row of dark forms yearning upwards. And since we will be horizontal ourselves for so long, let us now honorthe gods of the vertical: stalks of wheat which to the ant must seem as high as ... |
Environment | Property is death: they had a body crammed in a mailbox and it was just a brown suit with bones sticking out—and fathers lost in blowing snow—and mothers drift in blowing leaves, and all the lies in any town—work was my salvation he said work was always |
Environment | Rain interchangeable with the walls it falls against alphabetless like a neon ring above an extincted window showcasing something formerly fabulous now kinda poignantly disappeared. I guess that means we're back in Seaside (since we must begin somewhere) and it's probably summer but can't be as long ago as the date you... |
Environment | Recall the frontier when the businessof memory booms, when broadbands uncoil and clouds swell with sticky portals, amassing to a monsoon of live-streams. Burn your chattel to keep the cloud afloat so its tears can freeze to snow.The voice flatlines in this season of pulp:The artist makes miniature |
Environment | Redwinged blackbirds in the cattail pond— today I kicked and flipped a wingin the sand and saw it was a shearedoff flicker's. Yesterday's rain has left |
Environment | Said the Barnacle,You enchant me, with your carnival of force.Yours is a system of slow.There is you, the pulley and there is |
Environment | She breathed a chill that slowed the sapinside the phloem, stood perfectly still inside the dark, then walked to a fieldwhere the distance crooned in a smallblue voice how close it is, how the gravityof sky pulls you up like steam from the arch. She sang along until |
Environment | She’ll hold her hand out a window on a June day, snatch a chubby fistful of air, clutch it all night beneath her sheets. Out of a dream of flight she’ll emerge, vast as a yard of clover, and fall like a comforter over the neighborhood. Then she’ll shimmerlike a maple in the wind. |
Environment | Shiitake, velvet foot, hen of the woods, woodear, cloud ear, slippery jack, brown wreathsof Polish borowik dried and hangingin the stalls of a Krakow market—all thesewere years away from the room where I layonce, studying the contours of your sexas if it were some subterranean speciesI’d |
Environment | shoals in sparked night real creatures crushed by heated hunter gathers me, in |
Environment | sing manatee, manatee (you’d better praise all you can he said) all the trembling day & passing before her captivity |
Environment | Siwashing It Out Once in Suislaw ForestI slept under rhododendron All nightblossoms fell Shivering on |
Environment | Softly the water ripplesAgainst the canoe's curving side, Softly the birch trees rustle |
Environment | Some springs, apples bloom too soon. The trees have grown here for a hundred years, and are still quick to trust that the frost has finished. Some springs, pink petals turn black. Those summers, the orchards are empty and quiet. No reason for the bees to come.Other summers, red apples beat hearty in the |
Environment | Something in the field is working away. Root-noise. Twig-noise. Plant of weak chlorophyll, no name for it. Something in the field has mastered distance by living too close to fences. Yellow fruit, has it pit or seeds? Stalk of wither. Grass- noise fighting weed-noise. Dirt and chant. Something in the field. Coreopsis. ... |
Environment | Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— |
Environment | STARS, SCATTERSTILL. Constellations of people and quiet. Those nights when nothing catches, nothing also is artless. I walked for hours in those forests, my legs a canvas of scratches,trading on the old hopes—we were meant to be lost. But being lostmeans not knowing what it means. Inside the meadow is the grass,rich |
Environment | Surface the action of the day,a means of tracing the dynamic, so that a jitter of blue's sparked by little coals, sun a glimmerof the day's intent. He knows to trace an alphabet written on water is to surface the action of the day,a way of proceeding, entering into the never- to-be repeated, a |
Environment | That pip in the pear is a blackbird. Tussle on the grass a grackle. It is officially spring. Watch:Some kids pulling up BURIED WATER PIPE flags. And next to them the little violets. Rain violets. The flags are blue.The sycamores are just greening. "The world in fact is just," Chaos |
Environment | The apple on its bough is her desire,—Shining suspension, mimic of the sun.The bough has caught her breath up, and her voice,Dumbly articulate in the slant and riseOf branch on branch above her, blurs her eyes.She is prisoner of the tree and its green fingers. |
Environment | The birches stand in their beggar's row: Each poor tree Has had its wrists nearly Torn from the clear sleeves of bone, These icy trees Are hanging by their thumbs Under a sun That will begin to heal them soon, Each will climb out Of its own blue, oval mouth; The river groans, Two birds call out from the woodsAnd a |
Environment | The book is made of glass and I lookthrough it and see more books. Many glass books.Is someone speaking? A muffled voice is telling meto make soup which I thinkmeans I am loved. What other kind of cupfills itself? Can there be a cup of cup?A cup |
Environment | The botanical garden is just as I remember,although it is certain that everythinghas changed since my last visit.How many hilarious questions these fuzzyfiddleheads are inquiring of springwill be answered as green ferns unfurl?Walking the path, I stop to pick upbleached bark from a tree, curled intoa scroll of ancient ... |
Environment | The children race now here by the ivied fence, gather squealing now there by the lily border. The evening calms the quickened air, immense and warm; its veil is pierced with fire. The order of space discloses as pair by pair porch lights carve shadows. Cool phosphors flare when dark permits yearning to signal where, wi... |
Environment | The dark wood after the dark wood: the coldafter cold in April's false November. In that second worser place: more gone, less there, but in that lurid present present, cast and held, rooted, kept, like some old false-berried yew.Just against; the door leading to prefermentshut; no longer believing in |
Environment | The deer is still alive in the roadside grass. In an hour, we'll cut her open,her left hip broken, the bonein her dark body; now the white Camaroshocked in the night and the boywet-faced in the back seat,his parents at a lossby the hood, too youngto |
Environment | The faceless couple in Van Gogh's blue wood, is walking where there is no path, amid tall, seemingly branchless blue and pink trees. The tree crowns are beyond the frame, reaching up into our mind's eye— because we know where trees go and that they are full of wind and a thousand softly stirring machines that |
Environment | The fern gathers where the water seldom goes unless the storms swell this world of wise choices, the loud trickle of clear tongues of the stream licking the edges of rock, while up ahead a curve hides tomorrow from our crystal ball, the thing we are afraid to admit we have, the guarantee we hide from |
Environment | The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow;Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below.And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well,Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle’s breath of hell.And still she walks in golden hours Through h... |
Environment | The ground cracked like the rough pit of a peach and snapped in two. The sun behind the mountains turned into an olive-green glow.To niña Gloria this was home. She continued to sell her bowl of lemons, rubbing a cold, thin silver Christ pocketed in her apron. Otherslike Lito and Marvin playedsoldiers in the ruins |
Environment | The harpooned great white shark heaves onto sand, Nudged by waves, red cavern of dripping teeth. A crowd comes. Loud gulls wreathe the booming mist. Blue flies cloud the fishy sunset, and land. One, sated, is slapped to a smear beneath A child’s quick hand and then flicked from his wrist. Compass and munitions are sunk |
Environment | The heart on the breast of my mother Saint, sleeping on the wing of any number of blackbirds their feet sticking out the end of red pies.Danger is my jester, is the only thing keeping me here.He holds nothing to himself. In public he goes public.There is a man who takes blue silt to his brow and kisses |
Environment | The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay—Come give the holly a song; For it helps to drive stern winter away,With his garment so sombre and long. It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,And its leaves of burnish’d green, When |
Environment | The house had gone to bring again To the midnight sky a sunset glow. Now the chimney was all of the house that stood, Like a pistil after the petals go. The barn opposed across the way, That would have joined the house in flame Had it been the will of the wind, was left To bear |
Environment | The icicles wreathingOn trees in festoon Swing, swayed to our breathing:They’re made of the moon.She’s a pale, waxen taper;And these seem to drip Transparent as paperFrom the flame of her tip.Molten, smoking a little,Into crystal they pass; Falling, |
Environment | The jacaranda blooms beside the drunk stick tree.Come. I see you swelling with nectar. Hear you,Venteveos, shriek till night. Come. See me.The jacaranda blooms beside the drunk stick tree.The violent violet petals pollen weep.A bichofeo sings of you with open throat and beak.A jacaranda blooms beside the drunk stick tr... |
Environment | The lead dog was called Gandy.If he didn't go, nobodydid. Jannick the musherwas Danish. I almost didn't catchhis name. It was so windyand the wind was so loud."Yah! Gandy, yah!" he sang out.Also whistled and clickedhis tongue. He stood on skis and slidalong beside the sled. If the sledwent too |
Environment | The magazine on my lap talksabout milk. Tells me that in America,every farmer lost money onevery cow, every day of every monthof the year. Imagine that? To wakeup and know you’re digging yourselfdeeper into a hole you can’t seeout of, even as your hands are wetwith what feeds you. That’s |
Environment | The maples sweat now, out of season.Buds pop eyes in wintry bushesas the birds arrive, not having checkedthe calendars or clocks. They scramblein the frost for seeds, while undergrounda sobbing starts in roots and tubers.Ice cracks easily along the bank.It slides in gullies where a bear, still groggy,steps through coil... |
Environment | The morning comes, and thickening clouds prevail, Hanging like curtains all the horizon round, Or overhead in heavy stillness sail; So still is day, it seems like night profound; Scarce by the city’s din the air is stirred, And dull and deadened comes |
Environment | The night comes down, in ever-darkening shapes that seem— To grope, with eerie fingers for the window—then— To rest to sleep, enfolding me, as in a dream Faith—might I awaken! And drips the rain with seeming sad, insistent beat. Shivering across the |
Environment | The please freak And the likeness monster Follow the pretend family On their journey alone Around the room.In the middle of the night Comes the terrifying cry— "How may I help you"The tree looks down And shakes its head.Under separate cover Of the night, love Stalks the streets.The audit committee Goes into executive s... |
Environment | The rising sun had crowned the hills, And added beauty to the plain;O grand and wondrous spectacle! That only nature could explain.I stood within a leafy grove, And gazed around in blissful awe;The sky appeared one mass of blue, That seemed to spread from sea to shore.Far as the human |
Environment | The river is a fish and my tongue is white paper you draw your hand on and the sounds keys make on the waist of a janitor in an empty building on the night of your birth when the moon was a live bird pinned to a girl’s chest and the color of a beat-up door that hides a paint |
Environment | the room where I want to rest, I find my hands and am able again to see you— clear eyed where we left one another—last year in the passenger’s seat, having woken after Colorado, which was beautifuland which I did not wake you for,wanting all the aspens, all the golden, quaking aspens, |
Environment | The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to |
Environment | The sea has white points that I don't know and tempo, so good it wags good in my embrace, I corrupt sweetly— and slight it laments the aches at the knee touched to me. Without spite I remind you of an immense day of joy but you forget true knowledge. If the night is |
Environment | The slender checkered beetle, pale earth brown, sallies forth from amongthe bark canals of the oak, the eaten marof the woody gall left dying.Her spinyyellow hairs sparkle in the summer sun.Lacewings, locust, and laurel loosen cocoon, carapace, and bud, shimmy out and pause, airing wings expanding like rumpled petals, |
Environment | The starlings choose one piece of sky above the riverand pour themselves in. Like a thousand arrows pointing in unison one way, then another. That bit of blue |
Environment | The sun isn’t even a pearl today—its light diffused, strained grayby winter haze—this the grayestday so far, so when I enter the WellsFargo parking lot the last thing I expectis to see the sun in the car next to mine.I watch a woman make out with the sun,and I’m jealous |
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