The Hurricane The tree lay down on the garage roof and stretched, You have your heaven, it said, go to it. - William Carlos Williams

I have had my dream — like others — And it has come to nothing, so that
I remain now carelessly
With feet planted on the ground,
And look up at the sky — Feeling my clothes about me,
The weight of my body in my shoes,
The rim of my hat, air passing in and out
At my nose — and decide to dream no more.

Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze — or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard? — as if that answered
anything. Ah, yes — below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore — Which shore? — the sand clings to my lips — Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.

There is nothing sacred about literature, it is damned from one end to the other. There is nothing in literature but change and change is mockery. I'll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it'll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.