It's all in
the sound. A song.
Seldom a song. It should
be a song—made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian—something
immediate, open
scissors, a lady's
eyes—waking
centrifugal, centripetal.
Showing posts with label The Poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Poem. Show all posts
Sunday, July 16, 2017
William Carlos Williams,The Poem
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