Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living. The night is cold and delicate and full of angels...
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I remember meeting you in a dark dream Of April, you or some girl, The necklace of wishes alive and breathing around your throat.
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... like a Wave on a beach, that thinks it's had this...
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As words go crying after themselves, leaving the dream Upended in a puddle somewhere As though "dead" were just another adjective.
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Everything is being blown away; A little horse trots with a letter in its mouth, which is read with eagerness...
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All of our lives is a rebus Of little wooden animals painted shy, Terrific colors, magnificent and horrible, Close together.
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And we may be led, then, upward through more Powerful forms of poetry, past columns...
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A moment that gave not only itself, but Also the means of keeping it, of not turning to dust...
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With all of my power of living I am forced to lie on the floor.
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We are happy in our way of life. It doesn't make much sense to others. We sit about, Read, and are restless.
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... the girls who came at dawn To pay a visit to the young child, and how, when he grew up to be a man...
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Extreme patience and persistence are required, Yet everybody succeeds at this before being handed...
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Some day I'll claim to you how all used up I am because of you but in the meantime the ride...
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... that there is no other way, That the history of creation proceeds according to...
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There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.
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Another time I go outside Into the world. It rocks on and on. It was rocking before I saw it And is presumably doing so still.
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So we may never Again feel fully confident of the stratagem that bore us...
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How much longer will I be able to inhabit the divine sepulcher Of life, my great love?
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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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And suddenly, to be dying Is not a little or mean or cheap thing, Only wearying, the heat unbearable ...
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There is no going back, For standing still means death, and life is moving on,...
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The light that was shadowed then Was seen to be our lives,...
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For what Is remarkable about our chronic reverie (a watch...
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For these are moments only, moments of insight, And there are reaches to be attained,...
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As words go crying after themselves, leaving the dream Upended in a puddle somewhere As though 'dead' were just another adjective.
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And of the other things death is a new office building filled with modern furniture, A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.
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And the serial continues: Pain, expiation, delight, more pain,...
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But it is the same thing we are all seeing, Our world. Go after it,...
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'This is what my learning Teaches,' the Aquarian said, 'To absorb life through the pores For the life around you is dead.'
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We are prisoners of the world's demented sink. The soft enchantments of our years of innocence...
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