Sometimes when the sun is perfect as an apple in a still- life with oranges, and clouds are all coming home to me, like horses, the way I want them, and the city is far enough away for once, the ocean no longer a lost coffin to be prayed over constantly, I remember we will…
In 1593 Calingicus Wrote a tract on the mortality of birds. I do not desire to point out how much error Traces his diagrammatic sureness, only To say he saw the species at a new angle, Being somehow reminded in their motion Not of the dilated freedom we live in But of the tight chain…
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