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

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,

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

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;

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

We wear the mask that grins and li
It shades our cheeks and hides our
This debt we pay to human guile
With torn and bleeding hearts…
We smile and mouth the myriad subt

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

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

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

The rows of cells are unroofed,
a flute for the wind’s mouth,
who comes with a breath of ice
from the blue caves of the south.
O dark and fierce day:

Happy ye leaves when as those lill
Which hold my life in their dead d
Shall handle you and hold in loves
Lyke captives trembling at the vic
And happy lines, on which with sta

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

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

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

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief
Is it that they are born again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

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

Meditation is old and honorable, s
not sit, every morning of my life,
looking into the shining world? Be
attended to, delight, as well as h
Can one be passionate about the ju

On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God –
a worthy pastime.

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.
Some declare their lives are lived

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

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun

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

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.

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

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

WHAT guile is this, that those h
She doth attire under a net of gol
And with sly skill so cunningly th
That which is gold, or hair, may s
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which

Style is the answer to everything.
A fresh way to approach a dull or
To do a dull thing with style is p
To do a dangerous thing with style
Bullfighting can be an art