The enormous mountains of Worcester, that touch even the pale fronds of the dilating sky, tower over human something. Human city, with human road, things done, din, and cousins of drudgery. language remains among denizens, citizens, the portion of place that moves. Much cannot move. Not those mighty mountains that weigh upon populace with intensive remedial need. Not the blusterous seasons, that strain the people with regimen. Not any aptitude at all, but that a history broke on the surface of the place. Remember: Elizabeth Bishop is said to have invented the rickshaw around 1848 in Worcester, Massachusetts for a missionary. She dearly loved and the language let Charles Olson, together in a rickshaw while the young Frank O’Hara paid for sultry Harvard education by trundling forth with a merrie rickshaw energy. Forward goes the century of poetry, claiming Worcester as a prize. I fell as if I were being kidnapped: contra gravity (which is a kind of Worcester?) Not everyone sees the near...
poems, fireflies...