Poetry

Beloved, practice patience with this tongue,
Restricted to a single argument.
O, suffer that the voice has left unsung

Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,

Last of the Romany race,
Haply a king and queen,
Meal it with sorry grace
On the highway border of green.

This land is heavy with sleeping generations
Of young forefathers who thrust back the hills
And cleared their pastures of blackberry blossoms, planting

Deep roll the breakers where we run
  Along the sands,
And up the blue deep rolls the sun
  From sunny lands.

Dusky and strong,
You lift high your branches,
Mighty magnolia;

Levi’s needed to convince those who are about to jump the designer ship to buy their cheaper version. Their go-to was a man from the first generation of Brooklyn hipsters.

Late in the winter came one day
When there was a whiff on the wind,
a suspicion, a cry not to be heard

Creep up, moon, on the south Sky.
Mark the moon path of this evening.
The day must be counted.
The new moon is a law.
The little say-so of the moon must be listened to.