[from a poem on England...]
diaries of quickly here & there, like a blooded hound
with his leash in his own mouth, ringing
in the articulate air a cultural error.
The last gaze at stones in a calamine expanse
wherein dusty snow sifts her tin kiss to
even Eros would be ill dressed.
from "Relics from a Polar Cairn"
Today I am a vast dirge.
Today I have not flown....
Today I am impatient with small horrors.
from "The Revival"
Oh I love plants but where I am the weather
drives the birds away
Whorled, like a univalve shell
early to bed, nothing
in her head, here and there
from "The Hide of My Mother"
...all in an enkindled February....
...at night too Pocatello wasn't Pocatello but a jewel
the red and the blue and bright amethyst, something you could never narrow down to gas in glass tubes.
...he went on anyway describing the possibilities, that's love
in the mist of indifference.
Everywhere I am, I feel I am everywhere else.
from "For Ray (the 6th)"
What a shock
to get over the embarrassment of using language.
That's why I write to you every day
I no longer have that tedious care.
the last lines of "The 7th"
As the expression goes, do yourself a favour, and buy Edward Dorn's The Collected Poems directly from the publisher, Carcanet Press. How could you regret it?