To build a house, to get a son, to plant a tree. I would extend

The old French satisfaction, said as maxim, and long sought,

And seldom in my time and country three times known or caught.

I live among such people as can not create, but can pretend.

I hate them. I have never said so. I hate myself. I follow

Their drugstore laundry Sunday biscuit birth-rate wrack

At low tide on a beach of seaweed. I flail through it, maniac,

The dull surf in my face, and drink it, and cannot swallow.

To build a tree, to plant son, beget a house, to mingle

The wisdom and the metaphor, this is to shape the room

I'd live in. To bring decade a generation to a fume

Is to be angry and in love. It is not simple, is not single,

It does not tarn out at first had seemed so right.

This is the midst of life that Dante meant, who hoped to pave

With his words hell's seven levels, that spiral concave

Downward, where no voices, no ambition, loves, or anger bite,