</>Blond bicycles writhe in the swimming pools
of dark professors.
'What rubbish! ' you say, but I've seen it myself:
Blond bicycles writhe in the swimming pools
Outside the surge of the wind, the wind in the trees,
The rush of leaves, and the sighing in the pine-needles,
Outside the sound of the sea-shore, distant, remembered,
The waves breaking on the gray rocks, and the evening approaching,
In spite of my pain,
Inexplicable sweet strands of soured mist twist
In the echelons of salt streams,
The fist of kings is lost in the parting waves,
Poetry Can Damage Your Health
The day my doctor died of smoking
I bought myself a fat cigar -
I realised he must be joking,
His funeral was so bizarre:
A Day In March
Through the window the still yard.
A cat runs across and disappears through the slender doorway.
What to do on a day like this?
You poor dear guy with fishy eyes,
The kind of man my mother would despise,
I'd love to end your hopeless sorrow
And make you well -