LEAVES OF A MAGAZINE by MARIANNE MOORE

They open of their own will to the place
Where Captain Kidd stands with averted face
And folded arms, as solid as an oak,
His loosely knotted sash and scarlet cloak
Encircling him, and flapping in the breeze
That lines the withered, undulating seas.
Upon the page across from him, a frame
Of knives lie point to point about the name
Of a dim verse fantastically made
In praise of him,—a ragged block of shade;
A block of shade, with blurs and puckers where
Admiring hands have often brought to bear
Their pressure on the picture and the rhyme
Of buccaneering in the olden time.

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