When I consider the children of the middle class
as representations of phenomena to my subject sense
I can hardly see them at all, they fade

The white birch saplings choiring in a praise
of sunlight, spring, late April, the little voices
of nature’s chorus for the clearing that was

Sometimes I think you are absolutely right. Your
  rightness comes to me like the absoluteness
of God. I am vouchsafed the sudden glory

Going to visit my mother is like starting in on a piece by
                                                                                Beckett.
   You know that sense of sinking through crust,

I was born in the circus. I play the flat man.
   My voice is flat, my walk is flat, my ironies
         move flatly out to sock you in the eye.

Your glassy wind breaks on a shoutless shore and stirs around
                                                                                                the rose.

what shape should I file my nails I wonder / follow shape of moon usually best / once I did them square

It was the sound of her writing that woke me. Since you ask, this
is what I remember. Her desk is just outside my room. Some days

All he could see from this scene over Bluehill, Maine
(no distortions here: the work is from a seagirted light),
is enough of a world for any man, it seems plain

As evening lifted off the canals
and sounds we couldn’t see through,
muffled as a vaporetto moving through water