He is no one I really know.
The sun-charred, gaunt young man
By the highway’s edge in Kansas
Thirty-odd years ago.

Guest night. Breath-taking games and—spending. 
I play hand-rubbing host, you guest condescending.

I am convinced of my true behavior —
How my impulse at certain times unfolds
like a hand limping over a rail road track;

As I sat on the toilet
of a Boeing 727,
somewhere over Ohio

WANOKA (AP) Chimney Rock, which stood for centuries on the Oklahoma plain as a towering guide for covered wagons crossing the treacherous Cimarron River, has fallen victim to the same forces which created it. “Moisture and wind, the tools that sculpted it, reduced the eerie formation to a heap of rubble,” said Ernie Crumpler, Oklahoma University geologist.

Sitting down, unfolding
the paper, without looking
you raise the light toward the pipe.

One fine morning in a bright green garden, an old man sat crying. His beard wound round him like a friendly serpent. The big sky was so blue, and the little birds singing. The smiling sun cast warm nets over him, as the gentle breeze did blow. The old man looked up. His eyes were so red from crying. I want! I want! he cried in his old broken voice.

I dream I hurl a spear into the body of my love. I am brutal, but the spear begins to glow along its shaft and transfixes me. I stand covered in its radiance, unable to move, magnetized towards the spear that I reach out to touch and then grasp and stroke and carry myself forward along its length until I have touched the body of my love itself at the point where the spear has entered. I sob, I shake in convulsions and the body of my love bends forward to comfort me as I support myself against it in a paroxysm of leaving my body.

There was a contest
once
for the best picture
of a peach

When I was a teacher 
I taught the truth, viz., 
The two great levelers are