That life might triumph over death,
not in some other compensatory world
but here in the forest
and in the here and now.

Summer nights

You are not
who you think
you are;

the past
takes you in its mouth
like a pearl,
then opens its lips
and breathes you
silently free.

I have seen another world;
perhaps it is the wine
but I have seen another world.

After the flood

To write from the place where you are;
aware of the dead, aware of it all,
to write about ducks on the swollen river.

I open the window, wine like ink;
the smell of pig on a wet city morning