Now All My Teachers Are Dead Except

So This Is What I Am Pondering His Eyes That Could Not Conceive That I Was A Creature To Run From I Who Have Always Believed Too Much In Words

The Story Of Each Stone Leads Back To A Mountain.

I Offer You What I Have My Poverty

Separation Your Absence Has Gone Through Me Like Thread Through A Needle. Everything I Do Is Stitched With Its Color.

My Words Are The Garment Of What I Shall Never Be Like The Tucked Sleeve Of A One-armed Boy.