ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

sequence #
1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 9 10
11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20

  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 6

untitled
the first page is spoiled...


WHAT FUN IS THIS
the best-tied shoes and most...


POEM BEGINNING WITH MY NAME
Eric...


SELF PORTRAIT
I am not a poet...


THE MOON'S WHITE BODY
it costs everything...


STOP DON'T DO IT
I am caught on the scaffold...


THEY SAID
I address my prayers to...


STOOD TO SPEAK IN CONFUSION
the eye dividing itself in thirds...


ALL THE NURSING IN THE WORLD
fellow citizens I speak to you of health...


YOUTH OF AMERICA
sex now is not the sex it was...


untitled
I never tell you the truth...


REM
Due to neglect of the most important parts of sleep, all the...


WAKING
their eyes all...


CURIOSITY
the president of the future...


THEN
your rain falls...


EXAMINATION
Called to death's home town to account...


WHAT TO DO
make maps...


HOUSEHOLD
my human soul...


ONE SHELF OF MANY
a book about murdering...


ON THE EIGHTH DAY
God made puddles...


WHAT HE BUILT AND HOW IT WORKED
on a flat surface tilted towards...


REQUEST
I want a stone above me...


APRIL
the horizon is only the horizon...


I AM
whose shadow am I...


untitled
in the cave of my eye...


untitled
a difference...


untitled
it's not possible...


HEEDING
press my wrist to my ear...


THEFT OF LINES FROM ELIADE, ANGLETON, STOKER, AND ROTHENBERG
Mother of Sleep...


WHAT DID I NOTICE ABOUT TODAY
leaves mostly down...


GIFT
here is a stone...


IN INDIANA
dogwood holds out its hands palms upward...


HERE WE ARE
the nuthatches land on my porch...


MAIN THEMES
consciousness of loss...


LOVELINESS OF DISTANCE
some nights...


GOD MY WITNESS
open hearted...


SIGH
once gone...


untitled
so many things...


THE USUAL
a phone call rouses me...


CHECK UP
the noble doctors...


YESTERDAY
one comes to my door...


DIAGNOSIS
needs will need and again will need...


WORKING ON
my biography...


MISTAKEN
have come to understand...


HERE/NOT HERE
a bit of ice on things...


untitled
strip of gold colored ribbon...


BUSY
making my dust...


PROPOSITIONS
white hours...


NIGHT, THAT MAKES US SEE
what enters as a blow on the shoulders...


LIFE WITHOUT IDOLS
like any protestant...


THANK YOU NOTE
the heavy clouds...


I WRITE
to tell you how...


NOTHING WASTED
Trial and disillusionment, the stone's...


THROUGH THIS BEFORE
shoulders bent...


POINT OF VIEW
wind world...


untitled
my pulse in...


TRANSLATION
the eye that...


OCCUPIED
all night erasing...


THE RECOGNITION
bird that unspeaks itself...


REMEMBER WRITERS AND READERS
toward the last...

HOPE

Never easy in his mind, that man still keeps hoping. It's true:
the great keep wealth and power to themselves, liars prosper
because we love to hear a lie, each of us who fears another is 
feared by someone else, and we're all absolutely right to fear:
none is trustworthy. "So what is there to hope for?" That's not
the point. Justice, kindness, and peace of mind are meant for 
the realm of imagination, not for here. There, all sleep is pure 
and beautiful, the days are harmonious and even-paced. We would 
not fit in. The animals of that place would attack us as 
strangers who do not know how to treat them. We are of this
place, that always breeds some "next" from its "before". A tree
whose roots fail and branches fall is drilled with holes, some
featheration gets busy there, coos its tune from the opening,
eggs are begun. When one shade is struck down, the sunlight 
falling on the earth draws up another out of the seedlings. It's 
not so much that in this place everything exists in time, it's 
that time is in us, all of us, trees and rocks and airs included.
That man never easy in his mind doesn't really hope for help
coming from the hills or plains, seas or mountains--what he 
calls "hope" is time moving through him and leaving a trace he
can feel and must embody in an image of what has not yet come.