Probably
evening is falling. Not because of the years,
which are numerous, but because the play

So many poems begin where they
should end, and never end.
Mine never end, they run on

  I remember an old city, red walls and battlements, on the immense plain burnt out from the August heat, with the far-away spongy cold comfort of green hills in the background. Enormous emptiness of bridge-arches over the stagnant river dried to thin leaden puddles: a black moulding of mosquitoes shifting and silent along the banks: among the dazzle and 

Doubly silent the afternoon
By virtue of empty summer, and of a flame
Overflowing, is it from this vase

Whatever comes to pass: the devastated world
sinks back into twilight,
the forest offers it a sleeping potion,

In a nearly empty off-season cafe, just across
From the row of grand Saratoga hotels, I lost faith
In the elegance of the facades fronting Congress Park,

All the pretty things you do
the way you lean outward
against the window of the train everyday

All night long, on all sides of the house, there ate large, black, invisible horses
grazing in the stubbled field. Their legs are tied. The sound of their hooves
moving across the dry sheaves, is the only living thing in the world.

All this was years ago, but how could I forget
the first thing I did when you finally left me
was grow distinctly unlike myself—so distinctly unlike

This will be your office, Mr. Blank,
While you remain attached to the Poetry .
Division of the Department of Mediocrity.