I will not, though I would, resolve,
As the New Year’s Eve comes on,
To do, not do, review, revolve

The shrouded figure struggling to break from the coffin;
The sea giving out muffled cries by night;
The black hose damning the wild river.

It seems no air or any other thing 
Pretends to help; and you, defeated now,
But visibilities, your balm and clue,

He sits before me now, reptilian, cold,
Worn skeletal with sorrow for his child.
He would have lied to her, were he not old

Into the flaming peach she sped.
Passing through fastnesses of flesh
Down juicy channels. 

Wasn’t the printing press itself a kind of               
omen? Now it is clearer with reprinting:               
   the pocket Aquinas versus Lust

The bow bent remembers home long,
the years of its tree, the whine
of wind all night conditioning

The time is after dinner. Cigarettes
                    Glow on the lawn;
Glasses begin to tinkle; T V sets

      Leaping, you leave a fit of crystal
Rallying, in eddies, for the next disturbance.
     Startled lilies regain their delicate balance

Love poems (and what have I of yours
But one you did not send for jealousy,
And all my own?)