We Have To Learn How

I Want To Write Poems That Are Natural, Luminous, Deep, Spare. I Dream Of An Art So Transparent That You Can Look Through And See The World.

It Is My Heart That's Late, It Is My Song That's Flown.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.