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       all the love of me goes out to her (for A.M.)

       an answer to a critic of sorts

       the shower

       2 carnations

       have you ever kissed a panther?

       the best love poem I can write at the moment

       balling

       hot

       smiling, shining, singing

       visit to Venice

       love poem to Marina

       I can hear the sound of human lives being ripped to pieces

       for those 3

       blue moon, oh bleweeww mooooon how I adore you!

       the first love

       love

       raw with love (for N.W.)

       a love poem for all the women I have known

       fax

       one for the shoeshine man

       who in the hell is Tom Jones?

       sitting in a sandwich joint just off the freeway

       a definition

       an acceptance slip

       the end of a short affair

       one for old snaggle-tooth

       prayer for a whore in bad weather

       I made a mistake

       the 6 foot goddess (for S.D.)

       quiet clean girls in gingham dresses

       tonight

       pacific telephone

       hunchback

       mermaid

       yes

       2nd. street, near Hollister, in Santa Monica

       the trashing of the dildo

       a place to relax

       snap snap

       for the little one

       hello, Barbara

       Carson McCullers

       Jane and Droll

       we get along

       it was all right

       my walls of love

       eulogy to a hell of a dame

       love

       eulogy

       40 years ago in that hotel room

       a magician, gone

       no luck for that

       love poem to a stripper

       love crushed like a dead fly

       shoes

       pulled down shade

       Trollius and trellises

       turn

       oh, I was a ladies’ man!

       love poem

       a dog

       the strong man

       the bluebird

       the dressmaker

       confessions

       mine

      She lays like a lump.

      I can feel the great empty mountain

      of her head

      but she is alive. She yawns and

      scratches her nose and

      pulls up the covers.

      Soon I will kiss her goodnight

      and we will sleep.

      And far away is Scotland

      and under the ground the

      gophers run.

      I hear engines in the night

      and through the sky a white

      hand whirls:

      goodnight, dear, goodnight.

layover

      Making love in the sun, in the morning sun

      in a hotel room

      above the alley

      where poor men poke for bottles;

      making love in the sun

      making love by a carpet redder than our blood,

      making love while the boys sell headlines

      and Cadillacs,

      making love by a photograph of Paris

      and an open pack of Chesterfields,

      making love while other men—poor

      fools—

      work.

      That moment—to this . . .

      may be years in the way they measure,

      but it’s only one sentence back in my mind—

      there are so many days

      when living stops and pulls up and sits

      and waits like a train on the rails.

      I pass the hotel at 8

      and at 5; there are cats in the alleys

      and bottles and bums,

      and I look up at the window and think,

      I no longer know where you are,

      and I walk on and wonder where

      the living goes

      when

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