On the Sexual Revolution:
“ . . . some very plausible stuff is being written by women in a way that most men are not doing . . . ”

The way it came spinning onto the lawn—
the elm trees’ chaffy currency, each piece

Perched for the nonce among such verticals,
such strata (And did the Principessa
have any friends down there? —O no,

 

“Now, I must tell you of our grandeur,”
she’d written. “We are going to have
a Turkey!!! carpet in the dining room . . .

Rainstorms that blacken like a headache
where mosses thicken, and the mornings
smell of jonquils, the stillness