Naked, the sole white flame of the world.

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 63_

THE seven deathly spears of memory
Setting behind a god, a golden glorious
Halo of land and sea
Even for you and me,
Even for us . . .

The spear of Egypt,
Orange,
Through the sleeping lid,
With all the power of the bulk of a pyramid.

The spear of Chile,
Yellow,
Through the thrilling cheek,
With all the push of an upturned Andean peak.

The spear of Thibet,
Violet,
Through the eager hand,
The thrust of the iron of a silent land.

The spear of the Ice-Poles,
Green,
Through the warm-breathing breast,
The glacial east and the glacial west

The spear of Norway,
Blue,
Through the curved arm-pit,
The cheerless sun majestic in a jagged slit.

The spear of India,
Indigo,
Through the holy side,
A heaven-touching temple-roof down a mountain-slide.

The spear of Europe,
Red,
In the mouth's breath,
The million-splintering scream of death . . .

Even to us,
The seven-spearing sun,
The sword of separation before our love is done;
Even for us,
A simian shape
Throwing seven souls on the sea-wet cape;
Even for us
Who smile mouth to mouth,
The full tornado from the seven-forked south;
Even to us
Who clasp with our knees,
The scattering upheaval of the seven cold seas!

And this is as near as lovers ever come,
Their words are dumb;
This is as near as they have ever kissed,
Their lips are ocean-mist.

Yet what avail the seven
Spears of memory
Against the obstinate archery
Of light, the spears of heaven?

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 40_

I HAVE not written, reader,
That you may read. . . .
They sit in rows in the bare school-room
Reading.
Throwing rocks at windows is better,
And oh the tortoise-shell cat with the can tied on!
I would rather be a can-tier
Than a writer for readers.

I have written, reader,
For abstruse reasons.
Gold in the mine . . .
Black water seeping into tunnels . . .
A plank breaks, and the roof falls . . .
Three men suffocated.
The wife of one now works in a laundry;
The wife of another has married a fat man;
I forget about the third.

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 31_

THE night is growing deep with snow
O put your hand in mine,
While the mirthful secrets that we know
Bloom in the fire-shine--
Flakes falling with an undertow
Of delicate design.

Hushed are the courts where ladies went
Unquestioning