Long past that moment,
                I might guess when it was,
                but strangely I have no

It was a pretty boat, tied to the pier,
greeting a city with streets of water,
the great gold griffin of its tall smokestack

I gave up some of my bitterness. Let me tell you why.

It is true, as I have implied, that everyone should give up his mission, whether it’s to save the world, as mine always has been, or to live the life of a Don Juan.

That woman on the beach camouflaged
in sand (in California where
they have Satanic rituals now)

Measuring out the Jack
Daniels at 1 : 25,
closing the cupboard

she’d rather hobble to the window
           to look out on garages and planets

On the farm this had been the hour
Persimmon leaves rang like iron
Or the sound of a screendoor slamming

Like a cavalry charging, productive loins
in parallel
Straddle baby carriages;