OCCUPANTThe sad mailbox of my extreme youth, what did it ever deliver? The only...
A CRITICPick up your socks. Clean the house once in a while. Go to the dentist. ...
HISTORIANPiles and piles of books, boxes of documents, photographs, bones, shreds of clothes...
YOU WHO KNOWI was just enough bigger that I could wrestle you into the clean straw of the mow...
GRIFFY LAKEI spread my smooth water like a lap and caught the trees' faces where they fell...
FALLING
A fine grace of falling is in the leaves
gone beyond hanging and more pulled to earth
in their dry bat-lightness than in any
fullness of green. To the roots, the worm-graced
soil, they flush and scatter the year's holdings.
The wind calls to the living, waking us
before dawn. Cold inner lights spark our eyes.
We hold nothing in our hands, we open
to nothing inside: our fine gravity
of loss, our center, our place of falling.