The hawk sweeps down from his aerie,dives among swallows,turns over twice in the air,
It’s too beautiful today. Even the ramshackle Fine Arts Work Center is beautiful
While Miss Capp, older than the Constitution, droned of checks and balances, I dutifully filled my notebook (college-lined), and prayed
each beast tells his own story this is my story to you I have loved you seventeen years and both of us are not young any more we live in another country
In that bad year, in a city to have now no name, In the already-dark of a winter’s day, our feet
At rest-hour a rhythmicfaint squink, squinkin the top bunkfarthest from the counselor:
