Do you think of me
as I think
The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance...
our long way home.
I was always yours to have.
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;
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.
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
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
Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.
It flows through me
like the blue wave.
With nothing to brag about but the
Tearing boar-flesh and swilling al
A fermenting of huge-chested bragg
Got nowhere by sitting still
To hear some timorous poet enlarge
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.
you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
those odd ones, not
The dog loved its churlish life,
Scraps, thefts. Itsdeclined blood
An anarchy of mindless pride.
Nobody’s pet, but good enough
To double with a bitch as poor.
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 have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,
You have no enemies, you say?
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
Must have made foes! If you have
When my love swears that she is ma
I do believe her, though I know s
That she might think me some untut
Unlearned in the world’s false sub
Thus vainly thinking that she thin
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
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
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
their hoofprints in the deep
needles and knew
they ended the long night
under the pines, walking
Palm-tree: single-legged giant,
topping other trees,
peering at the firmament —
It longs to pierce the black cloud
and fly away, away,
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,
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
A beautiful day, the air so sweet,
the smell of nature, so fresh.
The birdies sing, whistle, and twe
the clouds mingle, and mesh.
I’m happy today, as my eyes behold
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
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
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
All the birds in song,
My dear one now is resting,
Night seems very long,
because I am so restless,
Understand, I am always trying to
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,
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
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 am the heart of a murdered woman
who took the wrong way home
who was strangled in a vacant lot
who was shot with care beneath a t
who was mutilated by a crisp knife
“O who can ever gaze his fill,”
Farmer and fisherman say,
“On native shore and local hill,
Grudge aching limb or callus on th
Father, grandfather stood upon thi
Inspiration, celestial muse I nee
Poetic verses; but alas I doubt s
On this rain-drenched foggy dreadf
My mind’s blank; my canvas ghostly
Sunshine, I pray will awaken my f