|Franz Wright. in secret one thing to perceive, the tall blue starry strangeness of |
being here at all. You gave us each in secret something to perceive. Furless now,
upright, My banished and experimental child You said, though your own heart ...
|Franz Wright's Ill Lit brings together a substantial selection of poems from earlier volumes, some of them significantly revised, and a group of twenty-one new poems, along with a selection of translations.|