Prurient tapirs gamboled on our lawns,
But that was quite some time ago.
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The porchlight coming on again,
Early November, the dead leaves
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To Ernest Brace
"And when the seven thunders had uttered their voices, I was
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Between the visits to the shock ward
The doctors used to let you play
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Unmanageable as history: these
Followers of Tammuz to the land
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This nothingness that feeds upon itself:
Pencils that turn to water in the hand,
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Under the bunker, where the reek of kerosene
Prepared the marriage rite, leader and whore,
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Butcher the evil millionaire, peasant,
And leave him stinking in the square.
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Last summer, in the blue heat,
Over the beach, in the burning air,
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For a while
Let it be enough:
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The dog stops barking after Robinson has gone.
His act is over. The world is a gray world,
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Squat, unshaven, full of gas,
Joseph Samuels, former clerk
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The tower bell in the Tenth Street Church
Rang out nostalgia for the refugee
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The surgical mask, the rubber teat
Are singed, give off an evil smell.
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When the coal
Gave out, we began
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Not a third that walks beside me,
But five or six or more.
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The smiles of the bathers fade as they leave the water,
And the lover feels sadness fall as it ends, as he leaves his love.
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"A equals X," says Mister One.
"A equals B," says Mister Two.
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It must have been in March the rug wore through.
Now the day passes and I stare
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The state cracked where they left your breath
No longer instrument. Along the shore
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In the broken light, in owl weather,
Webs on the lawn where the leaves end,
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"Wondrous life!" cried Marvell at Appleton House.
Renan admired Jesus Christ "wholeheartedly."
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Robinson at cards at the Algonquin; a thin
Blue light comes down once more outside the blinds.
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Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read
Beneath the innocence of morning flesh
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Then walk the floor, or twist upon your bed
While bullets, cold and blind, rush backward from the target’s eye,
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Over the river and through the woods
To grandmother’s house we go ...
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“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,”
Said an editor of Fortune to a man on Time.
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Somewhere in Chelsea, early summer;
And, walking in the twilight toward the docks,
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Curtains drawn back, the door ajar.
All winter long, it seemed, a darkening
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Iron, sulphur, steam: the wastes
Of all resorts like this have left thei
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