Index of First Lines

A coincidence here of fire and form
A flash of yellow caught my eye
A man is walking through the weeds
A man up a tree with a pole touches
A painting is an artful lie, a hoax
A small cat, delicate
Ah me, laddie
Air attains to it always
All newness comes into the world through this
All things rigid will flow
As dawn sloughs the dew off the unkempt lawn
Bishops deserve much better
Bitter nostalgia for a place that proved
Black man work for the white man
Collections of moments are, by custom, sequenced temporally
Does not rise beyond the trees, surprising us
Drive down White Rock Road on a bright February day
From the cold crux of war’s end
Gilt-edged, contained by the brilliant borders
Had either of us ever tried
Hold up a mask before the heart
How would it be to spend seventeen years
I am the keeper of the door
I encounter an aerial ferret
I have seen her rage against winter
I kill the ordered flow of time
I know you, ice man
I remember the day so long ago
I vow that I will learn to love Dysphoria
I will not forsake you, o my Goddess
In a restaurant over salad
In the idiom of the table
Inside a dream, lit by a revenant sun
It seems that lately I keep thinking about you
It seems that sleep is denied to all
It stood yesterday and the day before
Leaves by the door on these our wintry days
Little being born out of nothing
Look back at one whose whole life lay ahead
Marco Polo stood on a hill with doomed Cathay
My mind is full of turtles
Neither here nor there: it lies between the rock
Of all the days that swoop low over the water
Of the many who knew the many of you
Old words, old bones, old stones
On Stasis Street the hill climbs steep
One-eyed now, with a stump for one leg
Other than self is only to know the self
Paradox would be impossible without language
Reading about the catalpa, the phrase
Red bus, yellow up, fetching pebble people from the town
She was lying there
She wipes her hands on her apron
Somehow a thin green shaft
Summer beast rages over ice
Tell me how to live in October
The central obsession of our federal estate
The coffee shop of things we have not seen
The distribution of blossoms on an ironweed plant
The early leaves must steal the sun
The first is not occluded, with the cat
The first law of psychodynamics states
The floodlit fountain in the winter pond
The human soul is a hall of mirrors
The images of fear are the sum and substance
The light expands
The motions of light which lie behind
The plowman knows where the ox will turn, and when
The poem of the mantis
The price of Eden is eternal loneliness
The road winds down through swamps to a lake
The roads will end
The seed fell in a neglected corner
The sun, old recidivist
The uneasy traveler, off the map after backtracking too much
The wizened husk upon the bed
There is too much history here in Virginia
Those of them who passed the portal
Through sunlit hours the day went well
To be a lord, to loaf again at ease
To die in one’s romantic youth: that’s the ticket!
Toward the end of May, while green is still fresh
Translucent gold in the canopy
Travelling southeast in the early morning
Two hypothetical men sit at a hypothetical table
We roll the stone of poetry, and thus
What do they have that makes us worship them
When nothing here is certain
When the eyes of day
When the first pale flakes of January fall
Whenever I try to describe time
Williamsburg, city of weight
Year after year the tread of the tractor wheel

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