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By quoting them, old things I made for you.<br />
Dim Gulf was my first book (free verse); Night Rote<br />
Came next; then Hebe's Cup, my final float<br />
In that damp carnival, for now I term<br />
960 Everything "Poems," and no longer squirm.<br />
(But this transparent thingum does require<br />
Some moondrop title. Help me, Will! <strong>Pale</strong> <strong>Fire</strong>.)<br />
Gently the day has passed in a sustained<br />
Low hum of harmony. The brain is drained<br />
And a brown ament, and the noun I meant<br />
To use but did not, dry on the cement.<br />
Maybe my sensual love for the consonne<br />
D'appui, Echo's fey child, is based upon<br />
A feeling of fantastically planned,<br />
970 Richly rhymed life.<br />
I feel I understand<br />
Existence, or at least a minute part<br />
Of my existence, only through my art,<br />
In terms of combinational delight;<br />
And if my private universe scans right,<br />
So does the verse of galaxies divine<br />
Which I suspect is an iambic line.<br />
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