Incidental planet, Biblicalmetonym for bitterness,a green anti-fruit filled with airin citrus-like sections& harboring a larva at its core.The oak’s response to a bitof foreign matter is notunlike the oyster’s: wall it offinside a solid tear-drop.Come fall, it turns redbut doesn’t rot, lapsing insteadinto tough brown paper,a manuscript in the roundthat whelps a wasp.
The first thimble was the tanned hideof an enemy’s thumb. Whiskyhad yet to be invented, butneedles were employed as lancesin desperate finger-to-finger combat.Battlefields were so numerous,they were stacked into other battlefieldslike Russian dolls. Soon, brasswas pressed into use, & one armorerbegan dimpling the surfaceto ward off smallpox.Prostitutes made their Johns (thenstill called Jacks) wear thimbleson every finger, because who knewwhere those hands had been?Meanwhile they were measuring ale
With the cold frontcame news of your death—a failed bypass—and a skim of snowthat vanishes at the sun’s touch.Soon, only shadows are white,like the lettersI keep trying to formas my pen runs out of ink.
These tiny loiterers on the barley's beard,And happy units of a numerous herdOf playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,Mocking the sunshine in their glittering wings,How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!No kin they bear to labour's drudgery,Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;And where they fly for dinner no one knows--The dew-drops feed them not--they love the shineOf noon, whose sun may bring them golden wine.All day they're playing in their Sunday dress--Till night goes sleep, and they can do no less;Then, to the heath bell's silken hood they fly,And like to princes in their slumbers lie,
The dancing girls here . . . after a long night ofit ...The long beautiful night of the wind and rain in April,The long night hanging down from the droopingbranches of the top of a birch tree,Swinging, swaying, to the wind for a partner, to therain for a partner.What is the humming, swishing thing they sing inthe morning now?The rain, the wind, the swishing whispers of the longslim curve so little and so dark on the westernmorning sky . . . these dancing girls here on anApril early morning . . .They have had a long cool beautiful night of it withtheir partners learning this year's song of April.
Follow a shadow, it still flies you;Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you.Say, are not women truly thenStyled but the shadows of us men?At morn and even shades are longest,At noon they are or short or none;So men at weakest, they are strongest,But grant us perfect, they're not known.Say, are not women truly thenStyled but the shadows of us men?