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far from the cathedral timelessly waiting
far from your blue eyes Mary
Mary mother of God
Mary mother of men
where a child with a red balloon attached to a chattering
negress in a pink satin dress
sways and blurs into an avenue of palms flattened on a yel
low velvet lake that orange beaker white swans weave
patterns of snow light until wet strips of banna plant leaves
hush night
Until the rainsoaked flesh on your bones rot
Liquor winds the clown and being born and being born
American one may say the sneer of an alligator while night
jasimine chokes purple flesh in a bed of writhing cactus is
to the mathematics of you projected from a Street piano
out of New England as when the flesh rots
upon your bones while it hails as when
I am neatly folded away in my grave
the sea will worm the sand always while it snows
please omit flowers
As when the flesh on your bones rot the sea will
laugh mouth
Yes
EDWARD NAGLE
THE MEASURE OF OURSELVES
1 ITTLE AS I am appeased by fever, I find myself more at
ease in that state than in one of habitual clarity.
But no: it is only that which I lose and its valuation
which interests me in the state of fever.
Fever, I should say rather, has a certain curiosity for
me. I do not confuse sickness and anxiety here; simply that
which deforms (all morbidity) and the anguish it reveals.
I have prayed fever to take me, I have prayed also that it
spare me. It was not at all in the attitude of vain faltering or
unrealized expectation. Have I not, year after year, permitted
those decorations to imprint themselves upon my soul, and was
it not always some crime, some voyage, some victory?