ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 13

HAVING FOLLOWED MY HEART TILL ITS
give me...


EXPLANATION
gravity's open mouth...


THE RAIN
if it was going to happen...


TWO MEN
the man bending over sweeping dust...


10/1/04
a silence has come into the cornfields...


CERTAINTY
what lies beneath gravity...


untitled
it takes courage...


ITS USE
I turn and pick up...


WHEN WE LIVE
the world drops...


HANDS
I look in my hands...


10/26/04
while the fields are browning...


AFTER THE GREEN HAS GONE
rain through the trees...


HARVESTS AND STONE
surrounded by harvests...


FROM MY DIARY
early long lines...


FIRST WEEK OF NOVEMBER
the sky crowded with gray...


POEM WITH QUESTION MARKS
turn around at the warning sign?...


IN THE GREAT BEWILDERMENT
just as in a set of words...


11/14/04
moth so small it nearly escapes notice...


CODA
moth so small it nearly escapes notice...


STARTLED
I hadn't gone three steps before the mocking began. The bell...


LOOKING BACK
we die of everything...


TOWARDS SOLSTICE
this long night no dark...


POINTS IN THE VAST
in this dark you see...


TO DEAD PLANETS
this cold house...


MY SNOW JOURNEY
just keep walking...


LATE WINTER
my stiff legs on these winter stairs...


THEFT OF A LINE FROM STEVENS
looking up at the cloud covered sky...


HOMELAND
our inland waters slide...


SECURITY
on the way to...


2/18/05
seen from the shadow side...


CERTAIN ONES HAVE SHOWN
their heads through the dirt...


SOME EVENTS
some flakes on the way down stopped by...


untitled
what...


COLD BLUE
of the jay's back...


SIGHT
between one minute before...


untitled
that look he had...


DOWNSLOPE
the years grown...


EQUIVALENCE
in a mirror...


LOOKED UP
the dark wing...


CROWS
the call wordless...


3/29/05
the day made dimmer...


ITS FIELDS
green wing of the hill...


TO HOME
the country you came from...


THE GREAT COLLECTION
seen in weak light riding...


IT'S SENTIMENTAL BUT TRUE, I LOVE THE SPRING
branches...


THOUGH I STARTED TO SAY THEIR
I should have said...


THEFT OF A LINE FROM BLY
cold morning but he hardly noticed...


4/20/05
white hands of the dogwood...


IF GOD IS LOVE
and love is a consuming force...


ONCE AND AGAIN
the statues are not statues...


THERE
in that place...


7/4/05
the sun behind my back lights...


AFTER COMPLAINING FOR DAYS OF THE HEAT
rain and cooler weather...


IT'S TOO HOT IN THE HOUSE
I'll sweat in the shade outside...


HISTORY
once we could hear each other...


JULY
the green trees...


untitled
after rising...

REMINDER


Last summer I looked for the bridge whose enormous piers cast the
swirl of water in the river where Hobie Johnson drowned. Found a
road that dead-ended between the railroad and the river, a track
wandering through the brush to the muddy bank, a rope hanging over
the water. But the bridge was gone, piers down, and next day over
the river I saw that even the hole in the mountainside that the
bridge led to was sealed up. The guy who owned a pizza place near
where the whole mighty thing and its traffic of trains had once
existed had saved newspaper articles and pictures of it being built
and later being made to go away. In this part of the world, every-
thing vanishes without a trace, and then the without-a-trace is
forgotten. Plug a hole, let the frail paper yellow, words blur,
the whole thing gradually crumbles. True pain and scandal once
safely in the past, we can establish some kind of tourist zone
nearby. Put the graveyard on the hill so the dead get the best
view of the whole thing, while mourners are too distracted by grief
to notice. Maybe some piece of Hobie broke off, changed form,
drifted down the river system--Ohio in its giant crease between
states, juncture with the Mississippi, Mississippi down to the
sea--experiencing the whole phenomenon of half a continent empty-
ing itself of rain, dirt, trash, the question of origins forgotten,
that piece of Hobie lost forever in the Gulf.