Perhaps Frost was poking his secretary
The apple core of his good-living chewed
To the bitter seed. Perhaps he buttoned up
Disgusted with the dead lizard cupped in his palm
And his woman? She was as large as Gilbraltar
A chunk of cheese in each armpit
She took a deep breath
And wiggled the goose of her tasty fanny
Into the kitchen. There, she poured pancakes
Onto a skillet as old as this country
And Frost, a pioneer for all writers
Picked up his beaver-thrashed pencil and proclaimed
O Sweet Youth, etc

I don't know how to read
Biographies, the dead words of dead writers
Etched on my eyes, then gone. I read them
And drive my car recklessly through leaves
The cushion for my own eventual death
Sure, I reflect, like a chip of mirror
And then I forget them, these subjects
These writers with lungs and straight-A penmanship
They're of no use. I'm not saved
By the repetitions of jealousy and all-day drinking
Wind frisked the trees, hair fell like wheat
And the liver, saddlebag of disease
Bulged with inoperable knots