I Am Awakened Each Dawn Increasingly To

... Everyone Young Going Down The Long Slide To Happiness, Endlessly.

Still, Vicious Or Virtuous, Love Suits Most Of Us.

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

Death Is No Different Whined At Than Withstood.

I Never Think Of Poetry Or The Poetry Scene, Only Separate Poems Written By Individuals.