Well, what I'd like to do is to read the poems from now
on fairly consecutively and I don't mean all of them.
But I mean I'd like to read one poem from--
at least from each of the books and then end
with some unpublished ones.
And the one from The Moving Target is a poem called Air.
And this was written about, oh, I suppose three years
after The Drunk in the furnace, and the poems
are rather different.
I mean, the air of the title is air in every sense
you'd think of it.
It's in the musical sense, and in the pulmonary sense,
and in the weatherman sense.
"Naturally it is night.
Under the overturned lute with its one string
I am going my way, which has a strange sound.
This way the dust.
That way the dust.
I listen to both sides but I keep right on.
I remember the leaves sitting in judgment, and then winter.
I remember the rain with its bundle of roads.
The rain taking all its roads.
Nowhere.
Young as I am, old as I am, I forget tomorrow, the blind man.
I forget the life among the buried windows.
The eyes and the curtains.
The wall growing through the immortelles.
I forget silence, the owner of the smile.
This must be what I wanted to be doing.
Walking at night between the two deserts, singing."
[CLAPPING]