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

In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

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

We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

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. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea.

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