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 oncomin….

It is night, And it is vanity, and age Blackens the heart of Adam. Fear, The yellow chirper, beaks its cage..

Once fishing was a rabbit's foot-- O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot.

I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, de….

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will..

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

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

In the end, there is no end..

History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had - it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life neve….

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason..

September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn..

I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied….

Wallowing in this bloody sty, I cast for fish that pleased my eye.

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..

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

Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone.

I myself am hell; nobody's here.

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

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill..

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder..

But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eye seems a snapshot.