School Day No matter what the morning wrote here, no Matter what utterance of sage or fool, Dusk, the custodian, will later go Erasing blackboards in the quiet school. By Rail Now we've arrived,...
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John Nixon, Jr. The Precisionist "And that was that," she said, whamming the nail Precisely on its idiomatic head. Not "this was that" or (changing number) "these Were those." She left such...
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John Nixon, Jr. Most of my Aprils Most of my Aprils have been harvested And stored beneath that bony parasol That fends such dainties from the glaring falls. What bales of apple-bloom, flasks...
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JOHN NIXON, JR. THE FORGETTER She has forgotten now that humming birds Below the bridal suite once made for her A phallic music in the trumpet flowers. What fragile year it was, what sorry April...
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