Department of the Interior

Confined inside

Each polluted river is a sprite

Babbling through clear

Reeds to the heart

Of the homeland—

God, how can you people

Brook not hearing it?

The Golden Mystery Train

It’s no trade secret, Mr. 
Mordecue Ruepart Giltrip—

It’s not going to stop in time

To let you off unless you promise

Never to get back on again.

The Inn of Worldly Delights

Each of its rooms was large enough

To hold millions of travelers,

But too small to keep

Each one happy.

My Parents, Larger Than Life

Framed in sterling nuptial silver

To this very day, they are still

Backing into the picture before

Something else develops and the reason

They were here fades away.

Early Morning Talk Show

Though it’s a far cry

From winter,

As soon as I see snow,

I know that early bird

Of a mourning dove has stopped by

Our wobbly TV aerial again,

And is going on and on, talking

On his pedestal to anybody

Who is somebody about anything—

Even something as pedestrian

As the time of day.