We’ve received the morning post;
Royal Mail has sent a roast:
Let the ten-pound package lie

The question is not how like the animals we are
But how we got that way. We laugh, for what is a suicide note

But the epitaph of an emotion? Few of us die out in the open;

Now since his death you've lost the wish for sleep,
In which you might mislay the wound of feeling:

Like bulls trotting on their solemn rounds
over the cow flops, daisies, clover,
checking out the maidens of the meadow,

Happiness, in the fairy tale, comes hobbling
disguised as a hag. And the prince takes pity
on her, bringing her to bed, not knowing this

This pen, like your penis,
stirs in my hand:
those two or three kids

All summer long
while other trees
reached for more

The atmosphere surrounding you
reaches heights in which
it changes things

The wind and the rain, the trees swung like a bell
all across Massachusetts in the fall,
and the torn fog steaming from the yellow mountains,

Messengers, panting, die as they run,
cables rush out, candles burning with quick crimson flames,
colonels dozing in carriages faster than light,