Fear Was My Father, Father Fear. His

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

And I Rejoiced In Being What I Was.

When I Go Mad, I Call My Friends By Phone: I Am Afraid They Might Think They're Alone.

The Light Comes Brighter From The East; The Cawof Restive Crows Is Sharper On The Ear.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.