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.

Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

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?

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

Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.

Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.

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