The Old Dog Barks Backward

For I Have Had Too Much Of Apple-picking:i Am Overtired Of The Great Harvest I Myself Desired.

Poetry Is About The Grief. Politics Is About The Grievance.

I Go To School The Youth To Learn The Future.

The Armful For Every Parcel I Stoop Down To Seize I Lose Some Other Off My Arms And Knees, And The Whole Pile Is Slipping, Bottles, Buns, Extremes Too Hard To Comprehend At. Once Yet Nothing I Should Care To Leave Behind. With All I Have To Hold With Hand And Mind And Heart, If Need Be, I Will Do My Best. To Keep Their Building Balanced At My Breast. I Crouch Down To Prevent Them As They Fall; Then Sit Down In The Middle Of Them All. I Had To Drop The Armful In The Road And Try To Stack Them In A Better Load.

I Have Stood Still And Stopped The Sound Of Feet When Far Away An Interrupted Cry Came Over Houses From Another Street, But Not To Call Me Back Or Say Good-bye.