ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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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: 17

THE PROMISE
We live without distinction, keeping up...

RESTATEMENT
the stream breaking on the rocks...

GO TO LEONARD SPRINGS
walk past the gush and then...

WINGED HOUR
swallows' multiple flights...

PARALLEL LIVES
one world...

I MEAN
the clocks do not tire of themselves...

DRAWN ON
now that the shadow deepens...

TO ERIC
You appeal often to Reason as if...

untitled
the stone says...

8/25/09
it was hot like this...

SUMMER IS ENDING
the evenings draw off together...

DOUBLES
there are two rocks in my woods...

9/8/09
towers and arms of the wind farm...

GHOST
what is a ghost?...

A STORY OF COMING TO AND LEAVING THIS PLACE
the crossing is marked by the feet...

untitled
when we leave...

TIMES OF SUN AND CLOUDS
morning half full of sun...

KEEPING A PIECE OF BLUE
in this wind the trees throw...

THEFT OF LINES FROM SPICER AND BOBROWSKI
the river flowing in curves...

10/12/09
moon...

AUTOBIOGRAPHY VOL. IV
we had been told many things...

OH IT'S YOU
pardon me...

BLOWING IN
trees shaking their heads in the wind...

untitled
one's thin shadow...

GRIEVERS AND GLEANERS
the grievers and the gleaners...

11/1/09
last night's moon so full...

VARIATION ON A THEME
well after midnight...

LOOKING AT A FLY
how far back to our common ancestor?...

BUILT WELL
the temples...

WHERE WE MAKE OUR HOMES
the light turns its edge towards us...

LISTEN LEARN
the flames flying...

THE GODS
when the gods remember...

ROUTINE
Every morning, coming out of sleep into ...

SHAKING THE MIRROR
I hold the mirror with both hands...

I WROTE A POEM
that's enough for one week...

BLACKWING CROW
feet tight around the branch...

ECHO
blackwing crow...

WINTER CROWS HOUSE SILENCE
winter gnawing on bones...

IDEA FOR A POEM
as it has overtaken us...

THEFT OF A LINE FROM WHITMAN: THIS WINTER
five thousand games of solitaire...

COMMENTARY
the spider is history...

WHERE IT GOES
west of the west...

ONE BY ONE
inamorata...

untitled
through all the storms as light fell to halflight...

HE TOLD ME
it won't hurt you...

THE ORDER OF THINGS
last night's flood gone...

ALL SOLITUDES ARE THE SAME
All the solitudes. Each keeps to ...

STONECRUSHER
I went back to the roads I grew up on and walked daily...

RELATIONSHIP
oh words...

TAKE STEPS
steps...

MEANS
what means love...

THE SPILL
we can talk about the spill...

THIS IS THE EIGHTH ATTEMPT
no help coming from my former self...

MUCH
the weight I had at five...

SLEEPING IN THE RAIN
drawing a circle...

INSIDE
a craving in our hands...

TIME
back and forth back and forth...

SO FAR AS I CAN AGAIN
the trees at night stretch out...

NAPPER'S MOTTO
every action requires strength...

AUTOBIOGRAPHY VOL. V
I disappeared...

8/10/10
a dry touch strokes the land...

IT WILL WAKE
the drunken species...

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.