First we are merely
sailing by stars
that have
always stood before us.

Apollo offers me a name
and glory
if I but endure
the unendurable…

The poem arrives
and whispers.
If you listen,
it takes you
to the heart of things.

I feel unchanged
these fifty-two years,
though at times
I barely recognize
the man in the mirror

I have no opinion
about life.

I am alive.

On the far ridge,
the poplar grove
is that delicate hue
of budding out

You are
the hole in my life,
and force me to persist

Suburban dandilions,
all weedy,
become,
in rural meadows,
thick strewn
golden stars.

When God was done with you
I closed your eyes…