Verse:
Schwartz, Paul Petrie, Nancy G Westerfield, James Sullivan, Hillel
Paul Petrie Crows over Amsterdam Black-suited birds, morticians of the sun, you with the jagged wing-tips, trailing across the sky your ill-omens, or perched on die gravel rooftops staring up at...
...baskets of napkins...
...James Sullivan "The Railroad Bridge at Argenteuil On the placid, sun-diluted water The sailboats slide under the bridge...
...the medicines work like walls of bright snow...
...Nancy G. Westerfield Terrarlum Weaving its dense design, The tents of green trapped within Shadow like treetops their miniature world wherein miniature shadows seem to move Like miniature beings...
...And behind you beds like nests in January...
...In you go now, we have your records and your plastic bracelet...
...For mis is the new world...
...And as for your blacker shadows, let them fly back into the painting from which they comeThe cornfields are on fire...
...Yes, yes, this is America...
...Death, dismemberment, disease, love's end, the end ; of civilizationWith raucous scream my mind's fears fly upveer round- ftock back Today 1 shall feed you bread crumbs and not my body...
...White as ours, The miniature garden-gate swings, Whipped from its hinge after Whatever exodus...
...Oat of whose reach...
...Paul Petrie Crows over Amsterdam Black-suited birds, morticians of the sun, you with the jagged wing-tips, trailing across the sky your ill-omens, or perched on die gravel rooftops staring up at my Window, with beady, yellow eyes, and gathering, beak by beak, you have your assigned missions...
...and black as ours, Night and its terrors alarm The least hiding-place of those other Small weavers of dense designs...
...You do not need to wave...
...Only the deity-plant, Higher than ail the rest, shoulders Its shining miniature fruit out of reach...
...People's pores Enjoy the warm air...
...None at the tabletop, When we surprise the loss, will confess To touch or confiscate...
...Nothing more can happen...
...you may live as Jong as you like, as long as, afternoon movies, as long as you can remember...
...And behind you the pure waters in giant bottles in your kitchen...
...The clouds pile high...
...The sky fa a manic blue...
...lifting the glass To search its base, we see less than from above: The floor spilled over with rent branches As if its little earth fell From its little heaven's grace In a sudden storm...
...cracked enamel pots...
...metmac dishes...
...The path mat turns, without them, cannot end...
...Over the water The bridge is thrust according to Mathetnatic's rule and an engine bursts Every so often across the bridge, Drenching the air with the smell of smoke And the thrill of progress as it drags . People and stuff to market: So It all comes together at Argenteuil, Over a hundred years ago, Monet discovered that all we know Is mat the world is meant to be pure, But its prizes are only won driving, Hillel Schwartz Immigrant Left behind you stone stairs,, locked screen doors, rugs doused with talcum, shoes stuffed with paper, sinks grey as' wigs, a husband shopping in bars...
Vol. 108 • August 1981 • No. 15
