Introduction This poem is a Found Poem consisting of the first line of (almost) every poem in An Anthology of American Poetry circa 1954. You will notice the alphabetical A to Z as the poem progresses. When I first read the Appendix to the Anthology I noticed that the list of first lines read as a coherent poem and with minor changes, Found this poem within. These are not my lines but found by me and put into a poem. WayneRay 23:43, 3 December 2007 (UTC)WayneRay

a blue-grained line
circles a fragment of the mind,
a dead mosquito,
flattened against the door,
after dark ailanthus,
what makes you flower
as a knight rides into the moon,
a man in terror of impotence,
and now outside the walls,
this is how you live:
a woman, children,
an old pot, an old shoe
and an old skin,
a piece of thread
ripped-out from a fierce design
as solid seeming as antiquity
autumn equinox autumn sequence
the old times, autumn torture
and a woman in the shape of a woman,
walking behind grimed blinds
slatted across a courtyard back there,
birds and periodic blood
blacked out on a wagon,
part of my life cut out forever
burning oneself in
burning oneself out
can i easily say
there is a celebration in the plaza,
a child with a chip of a mirror
in his eye, coming by evening
through the windy city
completely protected on all sides
where cruelty is rarely conscious
the days of spring dead, dead, dead,
demon lovers, did you think
i was talking about my life
about evenings
which seem endless now
and even when i thought i prayed,
i was talking to myself.
everywhere, snow was falling,
from here on,
all of us will be living frost,
burning the cities ill,
however legendary,
hopes sparkle like water
in the clear carafe
and i am trying to imagine
i am up at sunrise,
i am walking rapidly through
striations of light and dark,
in my dream, children,
in my imagination, insomnia,
in the field the air writhes,
a heat pocket in the heart
of the queen anne lace,
a knot of blood in the woods
it is asleep in my body
i trust only my existence,
last night you wrote on the wall
revolution is poetry,
letters from the land of sinners
means there is something to hold,
meditations for a savage child
mirror in which two are seen as one
night pieces for a child
now, again, the life and death talk,
now, not a tear begun,
now that your hopes are shamed,
you stood nursing your nerves
when our mother went away
and father was the king
out in this desert,
rain of blood
rape reforming the crystal
riding the black express
from heaven to hell
so many minds in search of bodies
something broken, something.
the clouds are electric
in this freedom of the wholly mad,
their faces, safe as an interior,
their life, collapsed
the music of words,
the mystic finishes of time,
the long sunlight, lying on the sea
the pact we made was an ordinary pact
there were no angels,
the trees inside are moving
out into the forest and they say
this is a womans confession
this is how it feels to do something
you are afraid of,
to live illusion less,
in the abandoned mine,
to live, to lie awake
trying to tell you
we had to take the world
as it was given, we smile,
bound on the wheel
of an endless conversation,
whatever it was what has happened
when the ice begins to shiver,
when the grains of a glacier
are caked in the boot cleats,
you are beside me like a wall,
i touch you with my fingers and,
you are falling asleep
i sit looking at you
hiding there in your words
you see a man in your dreams,
you show me the poems
of some woman,
you are sleeping now,
i cover you with my heart.

WayneRay 19:26, 3 December 2007 (UTC)WayneRay

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