Harry Crosby

(4 June 1898 - 10 December 1929 / Boston, Massachusetts)

I Drink To The Sun


Mad day flags crackling in the dawn the sharp intensity of drink dentelleries thrown over the mill fire sun and candlelight and at midnight I squeeze the juice of the silver fruit of the moon into the red glass of my heart. I drink to the Sun who lies concealed in his bed under the sheets of night. In the morning he will rise like a Red Indian to run his marathon across the sky.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Edited: Tuesday, April 24, 2012

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