Let's see.
Let me read a couple of poems, which
are more surrealistic in tone.
The imagery comes out of its emotional needs
more than anything else in the poem.
More dreamlike imagery in it.
This is a poem called "Preparation for Travel."
Although the poem may seem somewhat
cluttered or confused as it goes along,
I think it clarifies at the end of the poem.
It was written for my wife before we were married.
And the poem, I think, in a strange way,
although it doesn't have any sense of a traditional tone
to it, is about a simpler thing as death and alienation
and love as a possible solace to those things.
It's called "Preparation for Travel," for Linda.
Someone has lost a note from his mother, another has bad wings.
Also reader, I hope you a home in between cool linens.
For although the door opens, no one comes in.
I am locked in a house where everyone flies up.
One by one, God is removing us.
Pray for us.
His large head like a horned owls comes between the trees,
and I believe He is coming here so that I hug my knees learning
solicitude to watch my wristwatch like a silkworm
spin.
The fortunate man sleeps in his dream, goes over the gates,
gathering speed by dried ponds, lawns, constant headlights,
and more peaceable homes.
When at last that dream rests, it is a sheet over the sea.
The angel also goes by, coming here.
And we, here, outside the asylum's gate
are packing, although there is no solution.
I hear the Angels speak kindly, but we are denied companions.
For my birthday, God gave me 10,000 white birds
so that I would not be alone, but I am.
So I am writing to you the only poem I ever
write, badly, but in sincerity.
I'm trying to love you.
Love me.
I have no shame.