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...
FLYING WITH THE CROWS
Enter March. Wind scants
cold in the sleeping hedges.
Crows call. They have
bad hearts, cry remorse
and make special pleas.
See them skate twice
manheight over the hill:
wings stroke, hold, stroke.
I go flying on their backs
down the open side of the pasture,
slack-mouthed and trembling,
clutching hard black feathers,
my bad heart pouring out
in whoops and caws.