Wasteland, Wasteland, Wasteland

The binder does not say “mole men.” The mole men are a rumor, a legend. So the old, empinkened blind man with the puckered skin and long, translucent, prehensile whiskers we found in the desert near the Repository is not…

All Or None

From The Kenyon Review, Spring 1951, Vol. XIII, No. 2 Each year, just as the blossoms Fall, and the buds curl from the boughs, I hear from the sky a wondering voice: The brass bird that drowses All year on…

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