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...
Dear Eric,
I flew in down by the round deep pond behind your house. The grass
there is long like my neck and high as my legs, and I could speak
my own language which is silence. Shaking poems from beak
and feathers, I walked in and out amongst the cattle, bird
with beasts.
And when you came walking, eyes just ahead of your feet, looking
for something it seemed, I turned my head with a warning, watching
you come through the grass. In midstep you saw me, seized by my look.
You could not have borne me, closer. I lifted my wide white wings
and broke into the air. No sorrow or silence of yours will bring
me back.
The Heron