Oh, why should a hen
have been run over
on West 4th Street
in the middle of summer?
She was a white hen
--red-and-white now, of course.
How did she get there?
Where was she going?
Her wing feathers spread
flat, flat in the tar,
all dirtied, and thin
as tissue paper.
A pigeon, yes,
or an English sparrow,
might meet such a fate,
but not that poor fowl.
Just now I went back
to look again.
I hadn't dreamed it:
there is a hen
turned into a quaint
old country saying
scribbled in chalk
(except for the beak).
written by Elizabeth Bishop, published on Tue 11.13.2007 at 02:39
Beneath that loved and celebrated breast,
silent, bored really blindly veined,
grieves, maybe lives and lets
written by Elizabeth Bishop, published on Wed 10.31.2007 at 11:19
I am too big. Too big by far. Pity me.
My eyes bulge and hurt. They are my one great beauty, even
written by Elizabeth Bishop, published on Thu 10.04.2007 at 17:16
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
written by Elizabeth Bishop, published on Wed 10.03.2007 at 22:31
Days that cannot bring you near
or will not,
Distance trying to appear
something more obstinate,
argue argue argue with me
written by Elizabeth Bishop, published on Mon 10.01.2007 at 02:00
The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged