Poetry Is The Synthesis Of Hyacinths And

The Buffaloes Are Gone. And Those Who Saw The Buffaloes Are Gone.

I'll Die Propped Up In Bed Trying To Do A Poem About America.

The Woman Named Tomorrow Sits With A Hairpin In Her Teeth And Takes Her Time

And All Poets Love Dust And Mist Because All The Last Answers. Go Running Back To Dust And Mist.

Didn't You Tie The Mittens On Her Feet (wednesday Evening's) Extra Special Nice? Yes--she Is An Extra Special Nice Pigeon. She Cries For Pity When She Wants Pity. And She Shuts Her Eyes When She Doesn't Want To Look At You. And If You Look Deep In Her Eyes When Her Eyes Are Open You Will See Lights There Exactly Like The Lights On The Pastures And The Meadows When The Mist Is Drifting On A Wednesday Evening Just Between The Twilight And Gloaming.