Felling A Tree And Gazing At The

Come Out To View / The Truth Of Flowers Blooming / In Poverty.

This Autumn- Why Am I Growing Old? Bird Disappearing Among Clouds.

Clapping My Hands With The Echoes The Summer Moon Begins To Dawn.

Every Moment Of Life Is The Last, Every Poem Is A Death Poem.

The Desire To Break The Silence With Constant Human Noise Is, I Believe, Precisely An Avoidance Of The Sacred Terror Of That Divine Encounter.