One flame will I wrap about my browned skin—a deed accomplished—
To speak to me on the way.
Then will I go quickly, lest the other fire-beings scorch my slow feet.
To the Violinist
(Mr. Bodenheim writes of the violinist described in our last issue.)
Pits a trillion times blacker than black,
Fringed with little black grasses, each holding
The jerking, smoldering ghost of a thought.
(O deep-aged pupils and lashes!)
At the bottom of the pits lay the phosphorescent bones,