today the warmth returned
and the blond-haired boys were
running wild through beds
of brittle hydrangea
and barren rose canes
when the littlest
still unsteady on his feet
caught his teddybear bib on a thorn
All articles filed in poet
everything — and us
poor, his bed is not
even his to claim
at least in human reck’ning
could this be the one
ev’ry soul longs for?
borrowed fields
this, and my dreams, are all i bring
for i, being poor, know naught else to do
meaning no more
here is a poem
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words that do not exist
what does your voice sound like?
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Glück
Glück, hab’ ich gesagt
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sunrise met the meadow
Sunrise met the meadow stark and spare
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easy
some poems are easy to write …
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when we hunger
remind us, O Lord
when we hunger
i am the lad
i am the lad who gets up at night
and peeps in at windows, face shining bright
