For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me
[On my birthday] At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
Days that cannot bring you near or will not,
The brown enormous odor he lived by was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,
You won't become a gourmet* cook By studying our Fannie's book--
The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat
For Robert Lowell This is the time of year
In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo
I live only here, between your eyes and you, But I live in your world. What do I do?
For Louise Crane In your next letter I wish you'd say
Caught -- the bubble in the spirit level,
Moving from left to left, the light is heavy on the Dome, and coarse.
Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily like a dog looking for a place to sleep in,
In memory of Marjorie Carr Stevens Each day with so much ceremony
The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
On the fair green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain:
Across the floor flits the mechanical toy, fit for a king of several centuries back.
Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery:
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying.
For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me
[On my birthday] At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
Days that cannot bring you near or will not,
The brown enormous odor he lived by was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,
You won't become a gourmet* cook By studying our Fannie's book--
The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat
For Robert Lowell This is the time of year
In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo
I live only here, between your eyes and you, But I live in your world. What do I do?
For Louise Crane In your next letter I wish you'd say
Caught -- the bubble in the spirit level,
Moving from left to left, the light is heavy on the Dome, and coarse.
Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily like a dog looking for a place to sleep in,
In memory of Marjorie Carr Stevens Each day with so much ceremony
The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
On the fair green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain:
Across the floor flits the mechanical toy, fit for a king of several centuries back.
Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery:
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying.