If Youth Is A Defect, It Is

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

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

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.