Heaven bribes me;
But for a dream
I have only to lie down.

The list of small deformities passed unrecorded
In the stupor of heredity,
Like our weather,

Under the Mirabeau Bridge there flows the Seine                    Must I recall          Our loves recall how then After each sorrow joy came back again

Character is a failure of love,
And I want to love you this morning.

This morning I killed more wasps
Than I could count.

He was like you,
always cramming and ramming, spluttering in disgust

I’m dreaming of the dahlias up there on the radiator
starting to grow leaves

I think he is full of some low form of love,
something that Dante would have pitied

Here I am walking between Ocean and Neptune
sinking my feet in mile after mile of wet life.

Sometimes I sit in my blue chair trying to remember
what it was like in the spring of 1950
before the burning coal entered my life.