Poets Are Like Baseball Pitchers. Both Have

In A Glass Of Cider It Seemed I Was A Mite Of Sediment That Waited For The Bottom To Ferment So I Could Catch A Bubble In Ascent. I Rode Up On One Till The Bubble Burst, And When That Left Me To Sink Back Reversed I Was No Worse Off Than I Was At First. I'd Catch Another Bubble If I Waited. The Thing Was To Get Now And Then Elated.

What An Exciting Age It Is We Live In With All This Talk About The Hope Of Youth And Nothing Made Of Youth.

Something Sinister In The Tone Told Me My Secret Must Be Known: Word I Was In The House Alone Somehow Must Have Gotten Abroad, Word I Was In My Life Alone, Word I Had No One Left But God.

I'd Like To Get Away From Earth Awhile / And Then Come Back To It And Begin Over.

And Were An Epitaph To Be My Story I'd Have A Short One Ready For My Own. I Would Have Written Of Me On My Stone: I Had A Lover's Quarrel With The World.