Leo Connellan has retained his soul and voice in Provincetown and Other Poems.

Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?

To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.

My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?

The good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.

Poetry is not a way of saying things; it's a way of seeing things.