I Was Overcome With An Attack Of

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.