On the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree

We are asleep with compasses in our hands.

Now all my teachers are dead except silence.

Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you've lost the whole thing.

A BIRTHDAY

Something continues and I don't know what to call it
though the language is full of suggestions
in the way of language
but they are all anonymous
and it's almost your birthday music next to my bones

these nights we hear the horses running in the rain
it stops and the moon comes out and we are still here
the leaks in the roof go on dripping after the rain has passed
smell of ginger flowers slips through the dark house
down near the sea the slow heart of the beacon flashes

the long way to you is still tied to me but it brought me to you
I keep wanting to give you what is already yours
it is the morning of the mornings together
breath of summer oh my found one
the sleep in the same current and each waking to you

when I open my eyes you are what I wanted to see.

What you remember saves you.