Poetry

the wind carries 
its empty package 
through the streets

What did he say, coming out of that cave
After a hundred forty days, and the world
Still skipping past the stars, the sun

The cloud moves off the escarpment.
The man is seen on the granite face,
A spider, hanging for a long time

The tall Fijian spears a giant turtle
And hurls him down upon the foaming breakers;

of myself, begging your pardon, as a young man,
quick to draw arms, quick
to take a fence for daggers toward my
heart, 

I give the black pit dream’s head,
not fearing to hit bottom, to the water
I offer my head like a stone,

The death of the father is my shepherd,
me maketh me three versions of wanting.

We have known such joy as a child knows.
My sons, in whom everything rests,
know that there were those who were deeply
in love,