I was going to read a few poems from a book that Ironwood
Press did, None, River.
Let's see, these are earlier poems, mostly from, I guess,
1969, 1970.
"Untitled"
"Had I not come into the room, saying
the moon was behaving like sod, not flesh,
as the boys downstairs had said, and not like anything else,
the mind should crack so easily or also
be seen rising sheer through, beyond limbs,
leaning toward rooms, the wood.
The wood of these rooms is a province that infects me.
Not enough of the flash I saw of a man in streaks of light half
out onto his roof, half not, emptying a bottle,
not enough of what he went back for."