My words are the garment of what I shall never be Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.
part memory part distance remaining mine in the ways that I learn to miss you
Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.
What you remember saves you.
We keep asking where they have gone those years we remember and we reach for them like hands in the night
I offer you what I have my Poverty
Modern poetry, for me, began not in English at all but in Spanish, in the poems of Lorca.
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
Sitting over words Very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing Not far Like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark The echo of everything that has ever Been spoken Still spinning its one syllable Between the earth and silence
On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree
Through all of youth I was looking for you without knowing what I was looking for
