A million million spermatozoa
All of them alive;
Out of their cataclysm but one poo
Dare hope to survive.
And among that billion minus one

The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance...
our long way home.
I was always yours to have.

To step over the low wall that div
Road from concrete walk above the
Brings sharply back something know
The miniature gaiety of seasides.
Everything crowds under the low ho

you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.
those odd ones, not

Up, black, striped and demasked li
At a funeral mass, the skunk’s tai
Paraded the skunk. Night after ni
I expected her like a visitor.
The refrigerator whinnied into sil

I thought it would last my time—
The sense that, beyond the town,
There would always be fields and f
Where the village louts could clim
Such trees as were not cut down;

Candy
Is Dandy
But liquor
Is quicker.

The furies are at home
in the mirror; it is their address
Even the clearest water,
if deep enough can drown.
Never think to surprise them.

When I think about myself,
I almost laugh myself to death,
My life has been one great big jok
A dance that’s walked
A song that’s spoke,

I know someone who kisses the way
a flower opens, but more rapidly.
Flowers are sweet. They have
short, beatific lives. They offer
much pleasure. There is

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hum
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there t
Here the clam deep in the speckled

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could the
Said the fly, “let us flee!”
“Let us fly!” said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the

Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.

The apes yawn and adore their flea
The parrots shriek as if they were
Like cheap tarts to attract the st
Fatigued with indolence, tiger and
Lie still as the sun. The boa-con

I was a bum in San Francisco but
to go to a symphony concert along
and the music was good but somethi
audience was not
and something about the orchestra

The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that
Some people wrap their lies around
And you sit wondering

There are similarities
I notice: that the hills
which the eyes make flat as a wall
together, open as I move
to let me through; become

Understand, I am always trying to
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,

Many authorities on bird life had
It was a remarkably fine phoenix,
It costs a great deal of money to
For quite a while Mr. Poldero con
But then business slackened. The

The pig, if I am not mistaken;
Supplies us sausage, ham, and baco
Let others say his heart is big—
I call it stupid of the pig.

Tightly-folded bud,
I have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,

Mild the mist upon the hill
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.
O, I’m gone back to the days of y

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils

I can feel the tug
of the halter at the nape
of her neck, the wind
on her naked front.
It blows her nipples

We sit indoors and talk of the col
And every gust that gathers streng
Is a threat to the house. But the
We think of the tree. If it never
We’ll know, we say, that this was

What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without la
upon some shellacked and grinning
eyes that open, blue, steel, and c

My fancies are fireflies, —
Specks of living light
twinkling in the dark.
he voice of wayside pansies,
that do not attract the careless g

When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on

Abstraction is an old story with t
Granted no one but a humanist much
Then there is this wildness whereo
It should be of the pleasure of a
No tears in the writer, no tears i

Don’t call this world adorable, or
It’s frisky, and a theater for mor
The eyelash of lightning is neithe
The struck tree burns like a pilla
But the blue rain sinks, straight

Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.

Go to Tibet.
Ride a camel.
Read the Bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a Beard.

I’d seen
their hoofprints in the deep
needles and knew
they ended the long night
under the pines, walking

My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just astir
And whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son, our instru

Last night
in the fields
I lay down in the darkness
to think about death,
but instead I fell asleep,

On the grass when I arrive,
Filling the stillness with life,
But ready to scare off
At the very first wrong move.
In the ivy when I leave.