Why Shouldn't We, So Generally Addicted To

Being A Poet Is One Of The Unhealthier Jobs--no Regular Hours, So Many Temptations!

Dreams Were The Worst. Of Course I Dreamed Of Food And Love, But They Were Pleasant Rather Than Otherwise. But Then I'd Dream Of Things Like Slitting A Baby's Throat, Mistaking It For A Baby Goat. I'd Have Nightmares Of Other Islands Stretching Away From Mine, Infinities Of Islands, Islands Spawning Islands, Like Frogs' Eggs Turning Into Polliwogs Of Islands, Knowing That I Had To Live On Each And Every One, Eventually, For Ages, Registering Their Flora, Their Fauna, Their Geography.

It Was Cold And Windy, Scarcely The Day To Take A Walk On That Long Beach Everything Was Withdrawn As Far As Possible, Indrawn: The Tide Far Out, The Ocean Shrunken, Seabirds In Ones Or Twos. The Rackety, Icy, Offshore Wind Numbed Our Faces On One Side; Disrupted The Formation Of A Lone Flight Of Canada Geese; And Blew Back The Low, Inaudible Rollers In Upright, Steely Mist.

The Pigs Stuck Out Their Little Feet And Snored.

Oh, Must We Dream Our Dreams And Have Them, Too?