For Susan Smith

Wild Rosebush How it stands there before the darkenings of the raining evening, young and pure; amoung its thrashed-out tendrils, giving, and yet sunk, immersed in its rose-existence; the shallow blossoms, some already open, each one unasked-for and untended: so, endlessly outdone by itself and indescribably self-excited. it calls to the wanderer, who in evening […]