Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.

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

It's the light of the oncoming train.