Although the land itself is rolling and pitted,
the pole tips form a horizontal plane
flat enough to support a sheet of glass.

Believe the sullen sense that sickness made,
And broke you in its hands.

Forgive me, it is what I made of you
In squalls, in Mardi Gras and ballyhoo.

Dusk—and the shimmer on the sea
has quickened and gone still. The large,
lithe Hurricane birds soar in circles

I took the skin of my twin for a jacket,
pulled it along my legs as stockinettes,
pocketed its bones and fat in my side

From the bedroom you can see
straight to the fringe of the woods
with a cross-staved gate to re-

When I enter hell, almost out of habit
I’ll shout Aspasia! at the first ghost who smiles.

on which the lunar spring descends‚
blanching every shard with halo splendor,
chips of broken cones, sheen

Probably
evening is falling. Not because of the years,
which are numerous, but because the play