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: 9

SPECULATION
the possession of life...

TO COUNT FOR WHAT
eyes scrape the borderland of no...

WHERE I AM/HAVE BEEN
our decisions are so small...

VIEW OF EARTH FROM MY HOUSE
stars out a light breeze...

MY FIRST LANGUAGE
alive in this time...

10/20/97
steadily consuming the purple-sweetness...

POSTCARD
I write to you from...

HERE
the beast and the waves...

LYRIC
moving through the dark...

APPLICATION
please send more poems...

IN THE DARK
friends the dark as much as you...

FOOTNOTE TO IN THE DARK
those who disappeared while still alive...

NOVEMBER
cold weather settles me...

WITHOUT CLOTHES
the right temperature for singing...

TO THE ASIAN MARKETS
we can be proud of our success...

3/1/98
the sunday walk a path...

REFUSAL TO MAKE MUSIC
I have lost my ears the silence is so large in them...

WEDNESDAY MORNING
with the sudden cold...

MY WINDOW
wonderful day...

untitled
sun flees we pursue...

MY WISHES
steady hand...

ON HIS WORK
bright from the roots...

THE LAST TIME I WAS AT YOUR HOUSE
while I snorted and rolled over...

untitled
sun's careful stroking breaks the frost...

untitled
there were some the wind dried some...

untitled
sun slant the wind dies moist...

FOLLOWING
the laws of migration over the ground...

HOW IT HAS BEEN
half dark or near dark...

THE TASK
There is a god or goddess for first ...

THINGS THAT ARE AND ARE NOT POEMS
things that kill us...

FRAGMENT
Doesn't. And complies again, removes the robe, there is the soft...

DREAMED OF MY EX-WIFE
We were selling a house back to the couple we had bought it from....

GRUMBLE
no other life has been given me...

11/1/98
the world sleeps...

THEFT OF A LINE FROM LALIC
a weight of fire brought home...

untitled
in another dream a pickled man...

AFTER HOURS
red flare west through the trees...

WHERE I STAND WITH HIM
a gift of storms bursts open...

DANCE OF LOVE
I couldn't touch the dancers' radiance...

DECEIVED MYSELF THINKING
of a poetry only...

WE KNOW THIS 


The dead are sleepless, we know this, they need no rest. With 
no sleep comes no dreams, and they live in reality. Unlike us 
their reasoning is perfect, they accept no delusions. Like the 
ants their nation is rational, unerring. They cannot be hurt: 
no fear. Numerous as they are, the way they live ensures that 
their needs do not empty their surroundings or crowd each other 
out. Wakeful, reasonable, faultless, desiring nothing and never 
afraid, how could we ever understand them even enough to be 
enemies? Surely they must be puzzled by us, too, since the only 
thing they have forgotten is the need to sleep. They must 
wonder a little, if they ever notice it, how still we are hours 
at a stretch, eyes closed; never guessing at the impossible 
things we live through every night.