good weather
is like
good women—
it doesn’t always happen
and when it does

they talk down through
the centuries to us,
and this we need more and more,
the statues and paintings
in midnight age

Making love in the sun, in the mor
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun

if I suffer at this
typewriter
think how I’d feel
among the lettuce—
pickers of Salinas?

one of Lorca’s best lines
is,
“agony, always
agony ...”
think of this when you

the hearse comes through the room
the beheaded, the disappeared, the
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky pas
their wings will not

at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table

I see old people on pensions in th
supermarkets and they are thin and
proud and they are dying
they are starving on their feet an
nothing. long ago, among other lie

They don’t make it
the beautiful die in flame—
suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh
ever...
they rip their arms off,

There are sketches on the walls of
and outside a large green bus swer
insanity sprung from a waving line
says the radio, and Jane Austin,
"I am going to do her portrait on