In the extremity of anguish.
Lonely in solitary confinement,
Men have been known to perform

Since last September I’ve been trying to describe
Two moonstone hills,
And an ochre mountain, by candle light, behind.

New face, strange face, for my unrest.
I hunt your look, and lust marks time
Dark in his doubtful uniform,

The high elms provide
A pillared avenue
Where only birds parade,

There was a bed prepared and avoided
Smoke faces
Too great a distraction

On the yellow walls of my patio
Five lizards lurk like sin, waiting for flies—
Women want love. In gay Acapulco

At night sometimes the big fog roams in tall
from the coast and away tall on the mountain road
it stands without moving while cars wander along

Neither on horseback nor seated,
But like himself, squarely on two feet,
The poet of death and lilacs

Tall hunters come; the fresh wind had the feel
Of an old anger blowing from beyond
The elms that edge the wood. Down on the pond,

I am exhumed on the express
Out of the aftermath of five,
And though I starve on consciousness