Spring 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1956 |

Twenty-Eight

      The porch supports riddled in rain and eaten with the sun   are undergoing that replacement keener than sheer naked boards       fragrant and young       beneath the plane, that deep displacement cleaner than white paint.   Even the cupola, a place for viewing and for hiding once,       will be shut off,       plank for plank of prudent condemnation end to end.   Except for you, was it so tenantless this year you heard your breath       like some dry wind       of summer light late on the piano through the jalousie?   Or were the doors and gates too eloquent in that finality       of rot and rust       for salt, for sails, beginnings, once again a stay of love?   However it may be, I celebrate the falling of a house:       a house, a year,       a year, a house. I celebrate another fallen year:   the shat

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On the Plight of Us in the Caravaggio

By Herbert Morris

      The porch supports riddled in rain and eaten with the sun   are undergoing that replacement keener than sheer naked boards       fragrant and young       beneath the plane, that deep displacement cleaner […]

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