| T |
|---|
| Tensegrity's overrated. |
| That Lewis might discover |
| The |
| The Saturday cold rattles like a candy wrapper. |
| The Yoni in her rictus sucks |
| The abrupt dark. |
| The abyss in the iris |
| The age demanded an image, |
| The amoeba |
| The blue stones |
| The bluejay in his monarch's robes spills water |
| The builder of cellos in solar weather |
| The butler of the weather, |
| The cardinal his scarlet vigil keeps |
| The cardinal his watchful penance keeps [scarl |
| The clematis in my window winds the wounded birch, |
| The climbing rose upon the tree |
| The congenital hoarfrost moonlight makes |
| The crayon-crammed sun, dear, |
| The dilemma of doing's to 'have done,' |
| The dogs were in the house and sniffing |
| The face haunts me. Melts, vagrant ghost that it i |
| The face is porcelain, sourceless |
| The face is porcelain, sourceless |
| The fetus in me |
| The fish swizzle |
| The furry neck of the bull is |
| The gangling legs are absent; nothing whitens |
| The heavy cannon are shouldering their men |
| The holly tree |
| The honest man in the mirror, mundane topic, |
| The idle angling |
| The impenetrable monument |
| The land lies rough beneath the oriental's tread. |
| The man is statue to the act unfolding, |
| The mind is portable, and its jar is gemmed |
| The moon became a motion I'd once forgot, |
| The native muse of this rock |
| The neon fire Prometheus stole |
| The night winds, so big, grow small when you sigh, |
| The old quarry's flooded echo came back |
| The one cop |
| The only political genius to ascend the stage, I |
| The palisades are golden in this light; |
| The perpetual distortion and stabwork of the histo |
| The petty strut of a peacock without a tail, |
| The phosphorous stars at your fingertips flower an |
| The pines in their shadows are distinguishing them |
| The placid green tank rambles against my cause, |
| The pond is marshy. Bullfrogs visit it daily. |
| The provident power of hurt and harm |
| The ragging rantings reach me, from your hand |
| The reign of the kingfisher was short, and short |
| The renegade pearl of her conscience unconsumed |
| The renegade pearl of her conscience unconsumed |
| The rich have built all the churches |
| The ritual errata and recovery of existence |
| The scenery of the ribs is a stage-set: |
| The scenery of the ribs is a stage-set: |
| The self-deceiving Eskimo |
| The silent woman in the church |
| The sinister is in us, and wins |
| The sky is blue. |
| The sovereign Poet, who's awakened gasp |
| The stars drop |
| The stars revolve on darkness. |
| The stilled rose |
| The storm's unushered, prophetic dark, |
| The storm's unushered, prophetic dark, |
| The sun's a botch of blacks, queer spumings |
| The sun, scintillating cadaver, |
| The suns themselves have multiplied and spent |
| The tender wipers whisper back and forth, |
| The thinking mind in constant delectation seeks |
| The town blind behind, blind woods ahead, |
| The undying fires of a perfected opalescence |
| The unextinguished wave of a tameless strength |
| The upper pasture gate creaked padlocked. |
| The vanishing marina sees our backs as we crown |
| The very astonishing hour has come. |
| The vision of a voyeur tracing mirrors |
| The voice that puts my world to worse |
| The wandering mind that wanders far and late |
| The wasp is still in the columbine's shadow, |
| The wasteful sun wakes blinking in morning's weeds |
| The wind that lashes everything at once |
| The wind that tenses in the hollow |
| The world created in an eye of fire |
| The world enlarged from a shell |
| The world looks level under my steel rims, |
| The world must change if we but imagine it. |
| Their carriages are upright |
| There decays, forgotten among more meaningless thi |
| There is no learning but to yearn and yearn, |
| There's a dark deep down in ordinary things |
| There's a rhyme at the joint point of knowing. |
| There, amid the wrong middle of this wood, |
| There, nimble and fantastic |
| There, sidewise from the |
| These cathedrals sunken in the architecture of the |
| These gifts' attendance now allay |
| They study at a school |
| This blade of land |
| This hiss, this effortful fumbling at the spinning |
| This is an epic: shrunk, crabbed, and small, |
| This is no post-mortem, but a moment recalled, my |
| This is the husband, a stone Ramses head |
| This is the scrape and scar of disarming sin, |
| This island man |
| This lady is dead, I think, |
| Three dark junipers shadow where time stood, |
| Time has set his eating stamp on your kind face, |
| Time's outrageous ghosts, griefs and sorrows |
| Tired of the afternoon, too tired to rest, |
| Tis said our end is half-divine |
| To balance a friendship's difficult. |
| To sleep is to meditate without a face, |
| To the lapsing shores of cold criticism I came, |
| To this true hand giant hearts come leaping |
| Toiling in dawn's orange forge |
| Trees that have it in them to be a wood |
| Tuneless bottles adumbrate the surf |
| Turning in my mind |
| Twelve white birds glimmer in a ring |
| Twenty heaving workers |
| Twice by speed of love was my message sent |
| Two eyes followed me out of sleep and dream. |