I wake and feel the city trembling.
Yes, there is something unsettled in the air
And the earth is uncertain.

Piece by piece I seem
to re-enter the world: I first began

a small, fixed dot, I still can see

We started early, took some pictures
    (A red bow in your hair);
And there were waterfalls on mountains

Created for whose sake? The praying
Mantis eats its mate. Hatched,
Two hundred or more eggs scramble 

Your camping lantern shone among
the cottonwoods. It was then
I should have come. Watching—

Yesterday rain fell in torrents, 
stripping the branches of leaves and 
deepening the arroyo. Now, 

Look at you bringing 
Your children up just as formerly 
And look at me back again 

But if, after so many droning days, 
You try to imagine a quiet country 
Under the soft crush of the tide, 

Though it is not our right to claim that the poets represented in the following portfolio would have remained in dark unfathomed caves of ocean had it not been for The Paris Review, surely all are among those writers whom this magazine has helped make known. 

The aging magician retired to his island.
It was not so green as he remembered,
Nor did the sea caress its headlands