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

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

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

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

We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.

In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.