My First Two Books Are Out Of

For Poems Are Not Words, After All, But Fires For The Cold, Ropes Let Down To The Lost, Something As Necessary As Bread In The Pockets Of The Hungry.

Who Do You Want To Be In Your One Wild And Precious Life?

It's Morning, And Again I Am That Lucky Person Who Is In It.

Children Play Earnestly As If It Were Work. But People Grow Up, And They Work With A Sorrow Upon Them. It's Duty.

On Poetry: Everyone Wants To Know What It Means. But Nobody Is Asking, How Does It Feel?