for Robert Duncan
one comes to language from afar, the ear
fears for its sound-barriers—
but one “comes”; the language “comes” for
The Beckoning Fair One
plant you now, dig you
later, the plaint stirs winter
earth…
air in a hornet’s nest
over the water makes a
solid, six-sided music…
a few utterly quiet scenes, things
are very far away—“form
is emptiness”
comely, comely, love trembles
and the sweet-shrub
Comment form: