I am SO Wildly UnProlific,

Would reach from here to the Californian Coast if you laid them .end to end.

And if you stacked them up, the poems I have not written would sway like a silent Tower of Babel, saying nothing

and everything in a thousand

` different tongues . So moving, So

Filled with and of suffering ,

so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth, the poems I have not written would break the hearts of every woman who’s ever left me,

MAKE them eye their husbands with a sharp themselves for turning their backs on the very source of beauty. contempt and hate

The poems I have not written would compel all other poets to ask of God:

I am worthless. ”

Trees would bow their heads before the poems I have not written. "Take me," they would say, "and turn me into your pages so that I might live forever as the ground from which your words arise." The wind itself, about which I might have written so eloquently

P raising and intersecting rivers of air, its stately calms and furious interrogations, its flutelike lingerings and P assionate `

to sweep down and then pass over the poems I have not written,

and the life I have not lived,

` the life