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

So; you have found an engine
Of injury that angels
Might dread. The world plunges,
Shies, snorts, and curvets like a
Then comfort her with fondlings,

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

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;

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn’t frighten me at all
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud

Four be the things I am wiser to
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a
Four be the things I’d been bette
Love, curiosity, freckles, and dou
Three be the things I shall never

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

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

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

Candy
Is Dandy
But liquor
Is quicker.

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun

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

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

Let me tell you a little story
About Miss Edith Gee;
She lived in Clevedon Terrace
At number 83.
She’d a slight squint in her left

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

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

Beloveds, now we know that we know
Without notice, our dear love can
In the instant that Michael is go
Though we are many, each of us is
Only when we confess our confusion

My man is Black Golden Amber Cha
Warm mouths of Brandy Fine
Cautious sunlight on a patterned r
Coughing laughter, rocked on a whi
Graceful turns on woolen stilts S

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