From What We Cannot Hold

Certain Words Now In Our Knowledge We Will Not Use Again, And We Will Never Forget Them. We Need Them. Like The Back Of The Picture.

This Is What I Have Heard At Last The Wind In December Lashing The Old Trees With Rain Unseen Rain Racing Along The Tiles Under The Moon Wind Rising And Falling Wind With Many Clouds Trees In The Night Wind.

Modern Poetry, For Me, Began Not In English At All But In Spanish, In The Poems Of Lorca.

I Will Take With Me The Emptiness Of My Hands. What You Do Not Have You Find Everywhere

I Needed My Mistakes In Their Order To Get Me Here