Thank you very much.
There is no way, no adequate way, at least,
to introduce one's own work, except by making
cryptic and hopefully helpful remarks
about each individual poem as it appears.
I can say only for your help that this first short poem,
in my memory as the result of an overexposure to real estate
people, and a disgust with the whole matter of living anywhere
at all.
This is the state of mind one finally comes to, I think.
It's called "House Hunting."
"The wind have lifted the roof from an old house
and thrown it away.
And no one's going to live there anymore.
It tempts me.
Why not have weather falling in every room?
Isn't the sky as easy the keep up as any ceiling,
less flat and steady.
Rain is no heavier, soaking heavy head than a long party.
The mother moonlight for a chandelier,
sun through the laundry, the snow on conversation,
leaves in the bed, fog in the library.
Or yourself in a bathtub, hoping for the best as the clouds
go by.
[LAUGHTER]
Dressing for dinner, according to what
comes down and not how many.
And at night, to sit indoors would
be to lose nothing but privacy, as the cropping stars took time
to mark their flight over the mind's eye."