The antlers of a standing moose,
As everybody knows,
Are just the perfect place to hang
Your wet and drippy clothes.
It’s quick and cheap, but I must say
I’ve lost a lot of clothes that way.
(s)he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.
Raymond Chandler,
Moose
American Archangel you are going— your body as big as a moving van— the houses, the highways are turning you in. Before my house was, you stood there grazing and before that my grandfather’s home with you on the wall. Antlers for hat racks and I felt the rest of your body somewhere outside the wall merely asking for an invitation. You stand now in a field in Maine, hopelessly alive, your antlers like seaweed, your face like a wolf’s death mask, your mouth a virgin, your nose a nipple, your legs muscled up like knitting balls, your neck mournful as an axe, and I would like to ask you into my garden.
Anne Sexton (1928–1974).
She (Lucy) walks in Beauty like the Night
SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,— A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.
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