Comments about Gillian Conoley
It Was The Beginning Of Joy And The End Of Pain
The sewing machine had a sort of genius, high, oily and red
over that little hellion's pants. Joy and Pain crossing legs,
then coloring in the poverty—
Are we a blue, blue whine in the restive trees?
Are we under the imprecision?
The beginning endless, ending like chasing deer out of the yard,
sphere unto sphere it takes a loyal Enthusiast
Death's mother. Stag on the meadow,
mare in the river,
unwinding green river wide rock for the resting.
The man and the woman liked to go there,