Why is there hurt and sorrow? Scissors, cut them off from me. 

I miss a social life. I know I made myself for that.

I wish he would recognize that and stop farting on me so that at least I could respect myself as he respects himself

once more I had entered the stream of things to become part of America

Climb, then, they whisper, and live.
Climb, then, I reply strongly, and die.

Dear fellow gull, a question or two for you to answer, if you care to.

I came upon the poem the way the hunter discovers the animal in the bush, with shock.

I could imagine the house beginning to take off too and I sat down as if to pin it to the ground

Neither tree leans towards or away from the other. I could be a social device to keep decorum between them in public.

If I were the grass that covers the graves I could forget being human.