THESE POEMS a poem for any day of the year a poem only for today loitering in the mind where they home they call out to one another across a rift of time or through the rooms of a history built too big for comfort the improprieties of one are the proprieties of the other they are each other's ghosts passing through each other's bodies amazed if one could fill up the other it would overflow and move on to no one knows where afterward mud from the bottom would be seen coating the highest branches and if we speak only of the day of these poems what could we say of their night?