& love is an evil word. Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean? An evol word.
Most Like an Arch This MarriageMost like an arch__n entrance which upholds and shores the stone-crush up the air like lace. Mass made idea, and idea held in place. A lock in time. Inside half-heaven unfolds.Most like an arch__wo weaknesses that lean into a strength. Two fallings become firm. Two joined abeyances become a term naming the fact that teaches fact to mean.Not quite that? Not much less. World as it is, what__ strong and separate falters. All I do at piling stone on stone apart from you is roofless around nothing. Till we kissI am no more than upright and unset. It is by falling in and in we makethe all-bearing point, for one another__ sake, in faultless failing, raised by our own weight.
The Collected Poems
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Most Like an Arch This MarriageMost like an arch__n entrance which upholds and shores the stone-crush up the air like lace. Mass made idea, and idea held in place. A lock in time. Inside half-heaven unfolds.Most like an arch__wo weaknesses that lean into a strength. Two fallings become firm. Two joined abeyances become a term naming the fact that teaches fact to mean.Not quite that? Not much less. World as it is, what__ strong and separate falters. All I do at piling stone on stone apart from you is roofless around nothing. Till we kissI am no more than upright and unset. It is by falling in and in we makethe all-bearing point, for one another__ sake, in faultless failing, raised by our own weight.
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In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your face seems clearer I revere your presence and remember We are warriors Thrusted onto this plane We are strong We must use our strength While bearing compassionIt's easy to get lost This place makes it so easy to get lost But- In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your presence seems clearer And I remember We are warriors
I do understand that they fall when I'm least able to pay attention because poems fall not from a tree, really, but from the richly pollinated boughs of an ordinary life, buzzing, as lives do, with clamor and glory. They are easy to miss but everywhere: poetry just is, whether we revere it or try to put it in prison. It is elementary grace, communicated from one soul to another.
As long as music survives, poetry will never die.
Great writers experience their dreams. They put them on paper, where others can read about them.
My only wish is to be buried with my books.