Poetry

Deep roll the breakers where we run
  Along the sands,
And up the blue deep rolls the sun
  From sunny lands.

Dusky and strong,
You lift high your branches,
Mighty magnolia;

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Beloved, practice patience with this tongue,
Restricted to a single argument.
O, suffer that the voice has left unsung

Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,

Levi’s needed to convince those who are about to jump the designer ship to buy their cheaper version. Their go-to was a man from the first generation of Brooklyn hipsters.

Cabbages catch at the moon.
It is late summer, no rain, the pack of the soil
cracks open, it is a hard summer.
In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the
leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are
series of little silver waterfalls...

The sky of gray is eaten in six places,
Rag holes stand out.
It is an army blanket and the sleeper
slept too near the fire.

The silver point of an evening star
dropping toward the hammock of new moon
over Lake Okoboji, over prairie waters in Iowa—
it was framed in the lights just after twilight.