When Hans Hofmann became a hedgeh… somewhere in a Germany that has vanished with its forests and hedg… Shakespeare would have been a youn… starting out in a country that was

It was a late book given up for lo… again and again with its sentences bare at last and phrases that seem… revealing what had been there the… the poems of daylight after the da…

Moored to the same ring: The hour, the darkness and I, Our compasses hooded like falcons. Now the memory of you comes aching… With a wash of broken bits which n…

I gave you sorrow to hang on your… Like a calendar in one color. I wear a torn place on my sleeve. It isn’t as simple as that. Between no place of mine and no pl…

With what stillness at last you appear in the valley your first sunlight reaching down to touch the tips of a few high leaves that do not stir

The cold slope is standing in dark… But the south of the trees is dry… The heavy limbs climb into the moo… I came to watch these White plants older at night

At the last minute a word is waiti… not heard that way before and not… repeated or ever be remembered one that always had been a househo… used in speaking of the ordinary

When I was beginning to read I im… that bridges had something to do w… and with what seemed to be cages b… that they were not cages it must h… with the dusty light flashing from…

When you go away the wind clicks a… The painters work all day but at s… Showing the black walls The clock goes back to striking th… That has no place in the years

Gray whale Now that we are sinding you to Th… That great god Tell him That we who follow you invented fo…

Whenever I go there everything is… The stamps on the bandages the tit… Of the professors of water The portrait of Glare the reasons… The white mourning

Out of the dry days through the dusty leaves far across the valley those few notes never heard here before

There in the fringe of trees betwe… the upper field and the edge of th… below it that runs above the valle… one time I heard in the early days of summer the clear ringing

It is March and black dust falls… Soon I will be gone The tall spirit who lodged here ha… Left already On the avenues the colorless threa…

In a dream I returned to the rive… Five orange trees by the bridge an… Beside two mills my house Into whose courtyard a blind man f… The goats and stood singing