It Is Night, And It Is Vanity,

What Can The Dove Of Jesus Give You Now But Wisdom, Exile? Stand And Live, The Dove Has Brought An Olive Branch To Eat.

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

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

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.