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Lynda, it wasn’t dog skin. He told his wife he wouldn’t wear a coat made out of “man’s best friend.” Ghost star, is there a dog there? Any friend? Fellini in Purgatory He was shoveling sand at the edge of the water, his heavy black glasses glittered with rain: “Don’t you see how much like a woman I am?” Shovel, shovel. His throat was wrapped in water, and the water flowered with milt. Shoveler, are you eating the earth? Earth eating you? Teach me what I have to have to live in this country. And he, as calm as calm, though he was dead: “Oh,—milt,—and we’re all of us milt.” Elegy for Jane Kenyon The rooks rise off the field in a black W and break up, black Cassiopeia breaking up growing darkness, growing light 231 at the hour of your death. Your music is broken and eaten among the American poets and you are gone, angry wolf, sad swallow, and you are gone, blest boat, blest water, gone in the first hour and gone in the second hour . . . You Are Not One in a Sequence Here Child who is to die take this breast this rattle this dress don’t listen to your friends on the other side . . . Child who is dead: you are not one in a sequence. Don’t come back, blush on your cheek, do not push your white boat up to our dock. Let you: stay over there, with your heaven-dog and your friends, and we: drop back down into our intents. Alcohol At a memorial service in a high school auditorium M. in her raincoat: she 232 door in the mountain ...

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