#Americans
In the long evening of April thro… Bayle’s two sheep dogs sail down t… for the flock a moment before he a… a stub of a man rolling as he appr… smiling and smiling and his dogs a…
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…
Now that you have caught sight of the other side of darkness the invisible side so that you can tell it is rising
The friends have gone home far up… of that river into whose estuary the man from England sailed in his… in time to catch sight of the late… furring in black the remotest edge…
Out of the dry days through the dusty leaves far across the valley those few notes never heard here before
My friends without shields walk on… It is late the windows are breakin… My friends without shoes leave What they love Grief moves among them as a fire a…
While I think of them they are gr… after the distances they have foll… all the way to the end for the fir… tracing a memory they did not have until they set out to remember it
Duporte the roofer that calm voice those sure hands gentling weathere… into new generations or half of him rising through a roof like some sea spirit from a wave
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…
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…
Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with…
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
A child looking at ruins grows you… but cold and wants to wake to a new name I have been younger in October than in all the months of spring
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
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…