How Hard, How Desperately Hard, Is The

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.

Polyphonic Prose Is A Kind Of Free Verse, Except That It Is Still Freer. Polyphonic Makes Full Use Of Cadence, Rime, Alliteration, Assonance.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.