Issue 21, Spring-Summer 1959
The shrouded figure struggling to break from the coffin;
The sea giving out muffled cries by night;
The black hose damning the wild river.
I saw a vision of Cotton Mather, leading
The Puritans into the gate of hell,
Lighting the way with a pine bough giving off darkness,
And a black hen was walking on his chest.
The thorns of the woods of Massachusetts,
The black horse in Cotton Mather’s dreams,
The cloud walking over the face of the sea,
And the mad form swinging in the branches,
The comb filled with blood; horses rearing at night.