It was an early spring late afternoon. It had been raining, and the cobblestone “streets” of Père Lachaise cemetery were still wet. The sky looked all grey and wet too, just beautiful.

For many years I had wanted to have a room of my own in a house of my own making, and when the opportunity came I went ahead and did it. 

Books
There are books that talk about the Panama Canal
I don’t know what the card catalogs say
And I don’t pay any attention to the financial pages

When I close a letter
with “Cordially,” I
blush with shame.

“I’m going out for a pack of cigarettes.”
  At one point in the history of our language —roughly
from the 1920s into the early 1950s is my guess —those

  I dunno about this Euphues.
Lyly’s language is gorgeous,
of course, occasionally irritating,

I love you. Woody,
when you peck
on the head

The writing of poems
and the living of life
seem to require

When I am dead and gone
they will say of me,
“We never could figure out 

My little wife suggested that I tell you this story / because she received such pleasure from it, / and I such pleasure in the telling.

O fate, O sad duty, / O mankind, O life, what does it mean?

                              Tonight the
                              light is
                              right

Compositions in harmony

the sunlight rods over the Commuter’s Spa

bluejay

because there is no reason for my sitting here laughing

Loneliness comes rushing toward me
Why does it move so fast
When I am moving toward it

Beautiful, an O fell from your mouth

You were born already beautiful

The funny thing is that he’s reading a paper 
As if with his throat 
With the bottom half folded neatly under his chin 

I would like to devote my special attention
To this horse
Let me tell you about it

You think of everything: 
Modem silence, where I go back continually 
To you, as does everyone, it seems…