Elizabeth
High aloft a white cloud,
poetry
North Through the David Strait
Far are the blue-white mountains ranging,
Death of a Gull
In the winter wave-march I saw white
On the Thirtieth of February
In the still dry passes behind
And Old Lovers Turn Away
My anarchist father, whose fading smokeform
Bacchus
The tincture of these words is dusk,
Geppetto's Guilt
On sand steep as an unstrung jaw
Act of Bronze
Burnished love, I whispered, reaching through the boughs,
A Fine Robe for a Nude
Three shades of blood to cast a single shade,
Gesture
The nurst at the bedside rewinds
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
