I have just read / a poem I wrote ten years ago. I like it.

I saw the crow first, on the shoulder turned 
to mud, then its shadow, then the cage
of bone arcing up from the muck. January 

And he shall not be narrow or be numb
But shall command his hostages of fear,
He who has bowed his neck to enter here

This is the house of the wooden roof
where nobody sleeps past dawn.

The house of the wooden roof

I dream you, and you come to me
intact, in focus, indiscreet, mouthing
the sweetest lies as if we cared.

How many statesmen let you move their lips
  like creaking shutters while they stood there dazed?
What statues did you dedicate? What ships

Out walking ties left over from a track
Where nothing travels now but rust and grass,
I half-believe in something that would pass

The Lion sleeps with open eyes
That none may take him by surprise.
The Son of God he signifies

In a prominent bar in Secaucus one day 
Rose a lady in skunk with a top heavy sway,
Raised a knobby red finger—all turned from their beer—

Though it is not our right to claim that the poets represented in the following portfolio would have remained in dark unfathomed caves of ocean had it not been for The Paris Review, surely all are among those writers whom this magazine has helped make known.