The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control

It Is Night, And It Is Vanity, And Age Blackens The Heart Of Adam. Fear, The Yellow Chirper, Beaks Its Cage.

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

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

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

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