Publications

Excerpt

Ache-mist of dawn. The so old pellucid air

in old terrain compounding, lit, was now shorn

of old miracles, is born

oh-sad today, and everywhere,

though mad, for it mad. The storm disturbs

upon the sheet what makes us laugh, perturbs.

Between the sheets are torn

the ordinary we. What made us love is air,

is thundered birds, is killing care.