Reginald ShepherdIconography Says:
In that year I was perfect and in mourning Blue glass tends to replace lapis, I look out and it's winter: from my window I see only afternoons, white silent trumpet flowers, each abiding in its proper exile, come to better terms, wrong air where voice is theft itself Tamper, tempered, sun throws me like a shadow, very unlike a day between two rains (and in describing, it was that nothing which defended me, dearest unknown, dear why, why not as well: presence of thing without a thing) Hedge, thicket, shawled shrubs, picket of foliage, leaves green, browning debris: yellow trees in series, short histories of color (four hours of purple, four hours of red): raw vessel of wet winds left wordless, eventual Wherever risk accumulates and he unlooses all the wings, shifts picture planes, tectonic plates apart: petty exterminations ruined by gone (our lady in the tense "not yet," many things being there, you are elsewhere), the dangers of less Selfish, I keep all these for me
Reginald Shepherd's third book Wrong, was published by the University of Pittsburgh Press in 1999. He lives in Ithaca, NY, and teaches at Cornell University.
