The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance...
our long way home.
I was always yours to have.
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
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,
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…
Do you think of me
as I think
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…
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
Go to Tibet.
Ride a camel.
Read the Bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a Beard.
you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
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.
Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when I was a young man
I felt these things were
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…
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…
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,
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.
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…
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…
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…
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
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.
Understand, I am always trying to…
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,
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…
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
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
their hoofprints in the deep
needles and knew
they ended the long night
under the pines, walking
Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.