The Kingfisher (Amy Clampitt Poems)
In a year the nightingales were said to be so loud they drowned out slumber, and peafowl strolled screaming beside ...
In a year the nightingales were said to be so loud they drowned out slumber, and peafowl strolled screaming beside ...
Whatever went wrong, that week, was more than weather: a shoddy streak in the fabric of the air of London ...
In those days the oatfields' fenced-in vats of running platinum, the yellower alloy of wheat and barley, whose end, however ...
The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd predilection unheard of by Marco Polo when he came upon, high in Badakhshan, ...
For whatever did it-the cider at the Ship Inn, where the crowd from the bar that night had overflowed singing ...
By night a laddered diagram seen from the windows of this bedroom town-rayflowcrs of dread ascending and descending- identifies the ...
Frame within frame, the evolving conversation is dancelike, as though two could play at improvising snowflakes' six-feather-vaned evanescence, no two ...
Late in the day the fogwrung itself out like a spongein glades of rain,sieving the half-invisiblecove with speartips;then, in a ...
Daily the cortege of crumpled defunct cars goes by by the lasagna- layered flatbed truckload: hardtop reverting to tar smudge, ...
Like the foghorn that's all lung, the wind chime that's all percussion, like the wind itself, that's merely air in ...
Tufts, follicles, grubstake biennial rosettes, a low- life beach-blond scruff of couch grass: notwithstanding the interglinting dregs of wholesale upheaval ...
An ingenuity too astonishing to be quite fortuitous is this bog full of sundews, sphagnum- lined and shaped like a ...
While the sun stops, or seems to, to define a term for the indeterminable, the human aspect, here in the ...
a stone at dawn cold water in the basin these walls' rough plaster imageless after the hammering of so much ...
Lost aboard the roll of Kodac- olor that was to have super- seded all need to remember Somerset were: a ...
A vagueness comes over everything, as though proving color and contour alike dispensable: the lighthouse extinct, the islands' spruce-tips drunk ...
In memory of Father Flye, 1884-1985 The strange and wonderful are too much with us. The protea of the antipodes-a ...
cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers, mornings a damascene- sealed bizarrerie of fernwork ...
The West Village by then was changing; before long the rundown brownstones at its farthest edge would have slipped into ...
Nothing's certain. Crossing, on this longest day, the low-tide-uncovered isthmus, scrambling up the scree-slope of what at high tide will ...
past parentage or gender beyond sung vocables the slipped-between the so infinitesimal fault line a limitless interiority beyond the woven ...
While you walk the water's edge, turning over concepts I can't envision, the honking buoy serves notice that at any ...
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