Presentation 580, Jenny Perkins

In my mind, I profile a night, using my dark ink, a night of antlers and wild deer, and cherries that grew beside black walnuts. In my mind I have arranged these drawings on a wall for you, Jenny, and shall add some more drawings of brilliant galaxies done in India ink, and shall place there also a drawing called “Childhood Among Wild Cherries.” In my mind I profile a night drawn out of childhood, and I wanted your portrait there, beautiful and pure as the beginning of the first love poem. Ideally, this is what my poem must be.

Presentation 484, Lament for Marwood

It is raining now, in quiet little drops, and Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. Is it nothing new for you to have raindrops on your fingers in the solitary dark crying of the night? Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. There is no reach to this moon-touched universe beyond the hero’s star; eagles drift through crimson foreign ports; and Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. Marwood’s black box is sunk in a grave, his skeleton of ebony and ash is ancient earth. Marwood, hear the gulls cry out Marwood, the hangman of England is dead.

Presentation 337, The Lemony, Frilly Poem

When she saw and in her I because that she because I because, when she, she that is, she, when she, for I knew, I felt, she knew of my rich heart before it purled in waterfalls melodiously. The temerity there, to try a night heartfall, there together, a deeper heart and deeper heartfall, singing heard through the golden strings. Dresden, Germany never knew a more beautiful ceramic cup to be made and decorated that is more beautiful to me than her lordly shining. She dashed with silver the dark orchards of the evening. Lemony, frilly love. My new darling.

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