ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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16 17 18 19 20

  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 4

ABOUT TO SIT DOWN
Stepping out the back door...


KISS HIS EAR
Brown corn bends as...


STALLING OUT
Just by getting enough distance...


PAGE ZERO
my mind's blank wall...


PARTING
words just off...


CRICKETS HESITATE
the night...


FROM AND TO
my first eternity...


IN THIS LITTLE POEM OR WORLD
I mislaid my travel plans the map...


FIELD GUIDE
indigo bunting no words...


untitled
I knew...


I STAY UP LATE
studying to live...


POEM OF EXPOSURE
the tender outcry...


untitled
underground I'll turn to you...


THEFT OF A LINE FROM TATE
I consider it a citizen's duty...


STANDING STILL IN
november...


HOW I TRAPPED THE MURDERER
I left out the part...


PROVERB
he who sleeps a false sleep...


A SUNDAY NIGHT SERMON FOR DAVID BAKER
The first step is to listen,...


I AM PART BUZZARD
my grandmother was a buzzard...


DEAR FUCKHEADS
my head hurts...


TILL IT THAWS
1....


RESOLUTION
I am so glad...


EVENING POEM
in the cellar...


DISTURBANCE
the world is alive...


FLIGHT
the gamblers...


VISIT
Buying toys, the one remaining copy...


STORM
in trouble again...


JUST AFTER DAWN
We sat among the cattle and he asked me ...


INTERPRETATION
Hour begets hour, dream begets dream,...


THE BUZZARD SPEAKS
I am proud...


INTERRUPTION
not knowing what to say...


JOSEPH'S POEM
if you wish to own a fear...


DIS-ORDER
of course...


BLUE MILLION
in the house dark...


untitled
blank pages spit their silence...


BROKEN POEM
life goes through...


AUTOBIOGRAPHY VOL. II
the day before my birth...


MARENGO
the pressure of seasons...


TODAY
awoke in the forest...

Listen!


WEATHER


The door holds. Yesterday's violent red morning, today's steady
rain. A drop at a time, every hole fills. There are empty
spaces inside everything I touch, and the emptiness touches back.
A smile without a face lurks behind the clouds, underneath the
grass, in the corners inside and the rotting stumps out. Wonder
of wonders, an earth that does nothing to fasten down its crea-
tures. My heart has divided into pieces from its frequent break-
ing, and they have been left all over. I live in my walls,
scratching, and also outside, stretched on a pile of leaves,
soaked but not crying about it. I've done everything I could,
even if the satisfaction is less than I planned, and the after-
math is an itchy bed to lie in. Home is where the heart leaves,
pronouncing its words in a whisper like the rain. Take care of
your children, leave me alone, there's no need to pursue, I'm
predator to my own prey. You know what I mean. I never do.