Index of First Lines
A certain happiness exists despite
86
A Romanesque bridge joins one hill
65
All from the stars the shards fell, light condensed
8
And yet the morning light held you, the cuts
47
Another poet scoffed when I said
72
Breath, too, can plummet, magic rougher
14
Daughter, you are more delicate
18
Dusk falls over a land cut and crossed 66
Flint, outcrop, overhang: I made my way
54
For him, there is only one poet: his wife
93
Freezing to death is not an act of love 52
Girders and glass roofs extend at round 77
Her pale hair stumbled in the wood, and he rode
33
How to keep the deep fluster and rush 108
I am not certain: je ne suis pas sûr
56
I have a whole cache I will one
day
62
I have washed too many I have watched
38
If joy could screeve from lung and marrow
23
Impostors shape fictions of marrow and soul 16
In your eyes along the streets can I see 64
It is not as if the sun and
I
90
It would be as the wind, but some force
49
It’s not custom to begin with the couplet
40
Just when it seems she will sing deport 45
Keel, mast, sail in wind, sea, sky shake and bend
32
Love is a Stonehenge, virtual to some 100
Made of systems? Love and justice have lost out
74
My heart is even lonelier than my face 80
Nostalgia and utopia, past and future
68
On an outcrop in Central Park, we talk
76
On the brink of simile I faced
98
Our whatever is an asymptote and not 89
Pain like bread breaks and tears, and in France
88
Palm trees came to France in 1864
51
Remember our mothers who bore us
83
Ropes, planks, cups, lines, buckets, tiles, fieldstones
87
Roses are more gorgeous than us: we are as birds
82
Silent devotion at first light, wind
59
So much depends on the glibness of words,
55
So the wind was on your sleeve: you asked me 10
Something rebarbative lives in this life 94
Son, you were allergic to filberts then 17
Taboo in the stem of my skull, the danger
11
The absence of your breath heats my marrow 42
The angles of the moon over, through those trees
41
The aspersion she cast cuts deep: the
times
15
The barges slip along the Seine, the wind has died
109
The boughs lay withered beyond the brow
1
The cars on the rail line are stacked up 71
The closer to the ground, the more
fictional 58
The clouds lie over the land near Avignon
70
The country is not pastoral: it was
67
The cusp of the dark falls on Central Park
13
The dead stars rise over the ridge, the garden 79
The dog beyond the gate barked, as if 22
The embarrassment of words abandons
us 43
The fen stretches out like prairie, the
canals 6
The garden in the ruined abbey brims 4
The Georgian calms the world about, hills slant 102
The hawthorn trembles in rain and ice 44
The hills are burial mounds: the oaks drape
101
The nuclear power plants smoke over the land 69
The renitency of the will opposes all
26
The scree on the beach was lost in your breath 25
The sea scrubs the rock, the clouds on the cape
27
The season of our wooing, a stillness now
84
The shadows of the evening still across 92
The sparrow on the trough is world enough
3
The speculation of music has
103
The tongue is spare: the wind lifts on the dirt road
20
The turquoise water is not faked on a postcard 28
The warehouses, spills, heaps, strews, broken waste 75
The way trains move, poetry moves
61
The white cliffs above Cassis
91
The wind was slapping the water, and the surf 105
The winds rise over the plain outside Paris
35
The windows of the moon have cast
29
The winter of our breath was the blue 9
There was a window on the stars, the cusp
31
There was jazz playing in a room away 34
There were stones there were knives
39
There’s something about a train that is
like 97
These eyes, joints, gums ache with an age
95
They married looking out to sea, the west
7
They were quartering us in these streets
30
This harvest is the sap that moves in us 21
This night, like the vanity of death
50
Those catacombs, stacked with skulls and bones
60
Through the threshold the pollen draws, the
light
46
Till we fled Calais these two
terrains
36
Vexation burned when the sun beat on the waves
19
We rose from dust on a day not of our 104
What is not said in the garden
2
What of the furtive thief of love stealing 106
When I was young the world was young: you know
48
When Venus moved her headquarters, she sighed
57
Who would hear me above the surf, the remains
78
Why is it the poplar leaves turn in the sun
73
Window night-frame time of the moon 37
Winter has its verges, not a green snow
81
World, breath, disinherited us,
even
85
You don’t have to be Richard the Third
107
You sang, black Madonna, your breasts more perfect 12
You sculch my secret signs, as though I illude 24
You see before you a man more ridiculous
63
You watch the dying light after the star 96
Your arms are not a trope, and
hyperbole 53
Your face was the chalk in these
hills
5
Your heart is knapped flint, or is it
mine? 99
