The universe is liquid;it fits any container.The universe fitsin a fieldand we play a pick-upgame of football.The universe fitsin a blade of grass on a field,drinking the dew thatforms on its shaded face.The universe fitsin a football;what joy it is to bekicked around!The universe fitsin the cells of a blade of grass,
Looking for the womanfrom my dream last night.Her eyes were the Cuyahoga River,and her touch wasthe first drop of unfrozen rain to fall on your shoulderin the beginning of Spring.
Friend, there are certain sounds I love at night,like the ongoing opera of the crickets,the one-note sonata of an owl in a nearby tree,or, should I be lying by the lake, the furiousbut curiously calming encroachment and retreatof the waves, or even the primal, contagious howlsof a thousand wild adolescents at Nelson Ledges,shouting all night like lemurs,their brains too stuffed with serotonin to sleep.But the noises your lover makes with youwould not be welcome to my earswere it noon in the middle of summer, let alone midnight,then one-ten, two-thirty, three-fifteen and four.It’s impossible to sleep when her piercing moansnearly perforate my eardrum, so please let me know
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.