Hung Over; Having Lost My Sons, I Confront the Wreckage of the Moon: Christmas, 1960; A Message Hidden in an Empty Wine Bottle That I Threw into a Gulley of Maple Trees One Night at an Indecent Hour; Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me; Today I Was Happy, So I Made This Poem

To read this article, purchase the Autumn 1961 issue.