Kenneth Koch Poems

They stir
I cool her in winter
A second so gilded
that the bit
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The Magic of Numbers—1

How strange it was to hear the furniture being moved around in the apartment upstairs!
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Passing the American graveyard, for my birthday
the crosses stuttering, white on tropical green,
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Is the governor falling
From a great height?
Arm in arm we fled the brassiere factory,
The motion-boat stayed on the shore!
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I

At the Poem Society a black-haired man stands up to say
“You make me sick with all your talk about restraint and mature talent!
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I remember when I wrote The Circus
I was living in Paris, or rather we were living in Paris
Janice, Frank was alive, the Whitney Museum
Was still on 8th Street, or was it still something else?
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I set forth one misted white day of June
Beneath the great Atlantic rainway, and heard:
“Honestly you smite worlds of truth, but
Lose your own trains of thought, like a pigeon.
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The sun is high, the seaside air is sharp,
And salty light reveals the Mayan School.
The Irish hope their names are on the harp,
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I

The leaves of blue came drifting down.
In the corner Madeleine Reierbacher was reading Lorna Doone.
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Leo bends over his desk
Gazing at a memorandum
While Stuart stands beside him
With a smile, saying,
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