The whole process is a lie,
unless,
crowned by excess,
It break forcefully,
one way or another,

If a man can say of his life or
any moment of his life, There is
nothing more to be desired! his st
becomes like that told in the famo
double sonnet—but without the

It is a willow when summer is over
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.

Constantly near you, I never in m
sixty-four years knew you so well
or half so well. We talked. you we
so lucid, so disengaged from all e
of place and time. We talked of ou

My shoes as I lean
unlacing them
stand out upon
flat worsted flowers
under my feet.

Men with picked voices chant the n
of cities in a huge gallery: promi
that pull through descending stair
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet

It is cold. The white moon
is up among her scattered stars—
like the bare thighs of
the Police Sergeant’s wife—among
her five children . . .

Gagarin says, in ecstasy,
he could have
gone on forever
he floated
at and sang

beauty is a shell
from the sea
where she rules triumphant
till love has had its way with her
scallops and

Nude bodies like peeled logs
sometimes give off a sweetest
odor, man and woman
under the trees in full excess
matching the cushion of