ISSUE: Summer 1997
The man asks me if I am sick.
That man asks me.
I fall like a stone, desolate, waiting—
yearn to prosper, to desire.
I hear you speaking:
a lesson done is a lesson done.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Quiet child of a tree without
That man asks me.
I fall like a stone, desolate, waiting—
yearn to prosper, to desire.
I hear you speaking:
a lesson done is a lesson done.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Quiet child of a tree without
branchings, lost and watching
a movement:
my coat is on the chair.
I’m tired but happy in my white sheets;
call me when I have stopped.
I write tonight.
I try hard to listen to a voice.
I know nothing but the dog barking centuries.
