Ah the uneasy peripatetic life of the poet! Strolling through the city or the country, past the exotic fauna of one and the exotic flora of the other, he is in love only with absent people. Walking in museums he wonders if he is transparent to others. He worries, promenading, about being politically correct, socially decorous and ecologically sound, and if such cargo of decency would sink him. In ballparks, making his way to the bleachers, he reacts to the weather and attests to the cathartic value of spectator sports.