The World Is Absolutely Out

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.