Bee in Amber A single syllable held unsung for centuries in such bliss as this bitter honey might still level a holy city or bring a pilgrim, as he tries to sing it, swiftly to his...
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Vernacular It was Thoreau who wanted to pull words up with dirt still clinging to the roots. He needed to watch Latin, Sanskrit, and Greek bleed to Saxon, then English, green as elm leaves...
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Not Icarus A sky too bleak for Brueghel, the woods a legion of black sticks and no bird stirring. What quickens me is the way the stripped wisteria vine has writhed its way through the deck...
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