Poetry Is Not The Record Of An

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.