James Schuyler, p.2


A tree, enamel needles
owl take-offs shake
flapping a sound and smell
of underwing, like flags,
the clothy weight of flags.
A cone of silence stuck
with diamonds, the watch
she hunts, the frayed band
broke. It was a black night.
Dawn walked on it, the sun
set its heel. She won't
find: a boundary of marsh,
the island in the wood.


Stoop, dove, horrid maid,
spread your chiffon on our
wood rot breeding the
Destroying Angel, white,
lathe shapely, trout lily
lovely. Taste, and have it.


In a rain dusk dawn the
clearing edge, the wood's
fangs, the clear crystal
twist of a salival stream,
announce you hence. Tear
free of me, mountain, old
home bone, down sheer fear
tears mossed boulders
bound me, pool, deceptive,
trout full, laugh and
chatter of finch and pecker
gargle my liquor skin I
catch your face on. Scar
a look and leave. A rust
plush daycoach unfather s
me. A field of crosses. Let
iron clang iron.

29 March 1952