On Me Your Voice Falls

So Many Things I Had Thought Forgotten Return To My Mind With Stranger Pain: Like Letters That Arrive Addressed To Someone Who Left The House So Many Years Ago.

A Good Meal Can Somewhat Repair / The Eatings Of Slight Love

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

They Say Eyes Clear With Age.

Novels Seem To Me To Be Richer, Broader, Deeper, More Enjoyable Than Poems.