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...
AT THE PLACE
Standing where something died
I feel edgy
as a hunter
on posted land
Because this is the last place
he ran to
because he stayed
he owns the air
heavy arms of the sycamore
are lifted to him
he possesses the dirt and stones
completely
we living trespass
in the world and
therefore our restlessness:
we must keep moving
we own nothing yet