Poems by Theodore Roethke
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This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,
I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
(My student, thrown by a horse)
Indelicate is he who loathes
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
In the long journey out of the self,
The whiskey on your breath
Now as the train bears west,
The fruit rolled by all day.
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
I saw a young snake glide
I
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
I study the lives on a leaf: the little
All profits disappear: the gain
Suddenly the window will open
In Saginaw, in Saginaw,
In moving-slow he has no Peer.
1
I am twenty-four
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.