holding birth by long white stem

sent an old postcard from the rain to myself

the moment your silent music comes true

mists from your heart half hiding the home of the moon

in the secret game in the secret room your face is circled

nights of love without knowing what a child would know

years bending in the wind from the fall of a grave

gazing at a boy in the insomniac's mirror

empty chairs in the cornfield where childhood begins

a voice in the mirror with tiny cracks

old chimney fires lingering in the alley through november

the only dovecote in flames without a girl's face

holding the eternal kaleidoscope tighter and tighter

studies of happiness stitched into the silence of a white piano

one who never travelled beyond the objects he loved

each end of this fallen tree rests on sky

an early death standing with hands in its pockets at daybreak

my childhood inside someone else never used

an audience reading around the desk of my solitude