a season, a season
sing to yourself
but to your bones
it is deep, deep
I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d
In the end, I suppose the better question is: how does the ocean feel about us?
I emerged from my door and carried into my present moment the quivering skeleton of a whom this poem is for, a what is trying to be accomplished. We are the escape artists. We point the way out. We pa