The Old Liberators
Of all the people in the mornings at the mall,
it’s the old liberators I like best,
those veterans of the Bulge, Anzio, or Monte Cassino . . .
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Old Men Playing Basketball
The heavy bodies lunge, the broken language
of fake and drive, glamorous jump shot
slowed to a stutter. Their gestures, in love . . .
The Oldest Living Thing in L.A.
At Wilshire & Santa Monica I saw an opossum
Trying to cross the street. It was late, the street
Was brightly lit, the opossum would take . . .
On a Drop of Dew
See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses, . . .
On the Death of Anne Brontë
THERE 's little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave;
I 've lived the parting hour to see . . .
On the Death of Richard West
In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine,
And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire;
The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
. . .
On Education
When infant Reason first exerts her sway,
And new-formed thoughts their earliest charms display;
Then let the growing race employ your care . . .
On the Existence of the Soul
How confident I am it is there. Don’t I bring it,
As if it were enclosed in a fine leather case,
To particular places solely for its own sake? . . .
On Inhabiting an Orange
All our roads go nowhere.
Maps are curled
To keep the pavement definitely
. . .
On the Lawn at the Villa
On the lawn at the villa—
That’s the way to start, eh, reader?
We know where we stand—somewhere expensive— . . .
