The river was Missouri’s farthest source—
So clear and shallow, even stones and sand,
Under that sun, seemed golden in its course.

Satan in Eden was “constrain’d
Into a beast.”
All of the proud, like him, are pained,

What if I told you the truth? What if I could?
The nuptial trek of the bower apes in May:
At night in the mountain meadow their clucking cries,

What does it mean that so many distinguished and gifted poets responded to the somewhat goofy games and assignments suggested by The Paris Review for this issue? Not just willingly, but with spirit, they have composed poems to strange titles like "An Empty Surfboard on a Flat Sea" and "Lavatory in a Cathedral," written commentaries on worksheets—written, in other words, to suit the occasion.

Three men on scaffolding scatter corn flakes down
For people to see in black-and-white as snow,
Falling around the actor under the lights.

Though the sky still was partly light
Over the campsite clearing
Where some men and boys sat eating

Inside the silver body
Slowing as it banks through veils of cloud
We float separately in our seats

  I’ve been to see the friend who died.
He’s fine. Less ugly (oh, he was ugly,
our poor friend!), and that waxy pallor

     I know that I should occupy my mind
and my desires only with earthly things;
but you are mightier than all desire,

my father rung poetry up on his typewriter
typing me to what he wanted to be abstract
even fancied me as “son” when me and my girl screwed