Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou are not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air.

I found the poems in the fields,
And only wrote them down.

...How terrible, those dreams before sleep were—the worse kind, mixing hope with despair...

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Dividing earth and sky
is not the right way
to think about this wholeness.
It only allows one to live
at a more precise address--
were I to be searched for
I'd be found much faster.
My distinguishing marks
are rapture and despair.


From 'Sky', in the collection 'Miracle Fair