I Never Feel More At Home Than

Let Cloud Shapes Swarm, / Let Chaos Storm, / I Wait For Form.

Hell Is A Half-filled Auditorium.

A Bird Half Wakened In The Lunar Noon Sang Halfway Through Its Little Inborn Tune.

The Figure A Poem Makes. It Begins In Delight And Ends In Wisdom.

He Is All Pine And I Am Apple Orchard. My Apple Trees Will Never Get Across And Eat The Cones Under His Pines, I Tell Him. He Only Says, "good Fences Make Good Neighbors.