You Must Believe A Poem Is A

Wake The Happy Words.

I Long For The Imperishable Quiet At The Heart Of Form.

What Have I Done, Dear God, To Deserve This Perpetual Feeling That I'm Almost Ready To Begin Something Really New?

The Damage Of Teaching: The Constant Contact With The Undeveloped.

But When I Breath With The Birds, The Spirit Of Wrath Becomes The Spirit Of Blessings, And The Dead Begin From Their Dark To Sing In My Sleep.