Summer 1959 • Vol. XXI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1959 |


First of the alphabet, my tongue has pondered visions of fluent sources, sheer beginnings, white acres and infinities of silence strewn in a wake behind us, brine of absence, so that the language sails merely with A to ride it, what we salvaged from disaster seemingly dry and water-tight hereafter. Bright of the desolate, my eyes have wandered softly across the breathing of your body long in the dark of night and doom of waking, hoping to weigh the coolness of your graces, needing to catch their fragrance in the mind that somewhere speech be wrought of it tomorrow, my mouth awash the genius of such morning. That one may learn from you: some last surrender, prudent but ruinous, of antecedents conjured against the searing of hot light the steeper side of A to nothingness, some hemisphere of madness where the blood loses its mind and, brazen, hammers passion for the first time beyond the word of it; that nothing to proceed from but ourselves offer itself as comfort and assua

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