My Love's Manners In Bed Are Not

As I Get Older, I Recognize That My Thinking About Poetry May Or May Not Have Anything Actively To Do With My Actual Work As A Poet. This Strikes Me As No Thing Cynically Awry But Rather Seems Again Instance Of That Hapless Or Possibly Happy Fact, We Do Not As Humans Seem Necessarily Aware Of What We Are Physically Or Psychically Doing At All!

Comes The Time When It's Later And Onto Your Table The Headwaiter Puts The Bill

Suddenly The Whole Imagination Of Writing And Editorial And Newspaper And All These Presumptions About Who Am I Reading This, And Who Else Other People May Be, And All That, It's So Grimly Brutal!

Moon, Moon, When You Leave Me Alone All The Darkness Is An Utter Blackness, A Pit Of Fear, A Stench, Hands Unreasonable Never To Touch. But I Love You. Do You Love Me. What To Say When You See Me.

I Don’t Think Any Man Writing Can Worry About What The Act Of Writing Costs Him, Even Though At Times He Is Very Aware Of It.