wearing down bit by bit until i'm morning dew

working at this desk    my dust all around

how shall my fields escape the corn

sitting alone at the darkening of the day points the way

my skies are too many to bury

making poems more possible if there are shadows in your hands

snow must come down until it ceases to remember

we are here to weigh true darkness for any taint of light

where fog rakes its milky tines :: weighs nothing

doesn't skin form by thinking        of the shadows it will hold within

coffin-flat field in ohio      slowly grows a crow

can faces i've never seen before        hear the rain inside my dreams

can you imagine the storm within my boat that exhausted every wind

to guide the light that is light        was life

leaf falls to find the moon :: mind

the only forest we never felled        living within my leaf

a fly on my wall all winter

why hasn't dawn flown away like a crow

when eyes are closed        can moonlight flood the cave

what was once stripped leafless        dark beside my bed

turn the shadows over until your first snow falls out

to search each day for sun is my asylum

watching leaves fall into clouds :: i could almost live again

to find out how much moon i have :: it snows

a silent drum :: a darkened lamp :: more starlight than i can use

my work is drenched :: breaks stone into mist

could the origin of leaves be autumn        and helpless falling

does the light of today remember its birth

last drops of rain in hands of a breeze        stirring what others need

how does one keep company        with a rose from the end of the world

for love of the house        our table is small

let us kneel down with mountains        repairing the wind

serenity within the seed :: tell me everything

when i die        to whom shall i leave        the one who lived here before

who will hold the ocean close as it dies

what is the name for shedding a leaf        and having no age

washing the waves with my skin :: and nothing

shadow is the shortest route        to unexpected light

will weeds grow above or within my grave

some try to hide from their mountain by pushing the sky away

haiku is the heart

the whole of the earth becoming more perfect :: entering the sea before us

in the milk behind your eyes :: live those who have one wing

i look from the monarch without her wing :: into the mystery of sky

night
i lie silent
the rain to hear my heart

what i've made in life also dreams

there is a moon in the window where you open

the moon
when we sleep
is the cold

if you find a ripe moon on the ground :: may it happen to me

a dark hand reached through you
brought birth
in

i was child
and a silver craft fell home
into nobody else

stones are slow
slower than me
turning into breeze

our eyes open in the afternoon
we see dusk
through falling snow

i miss the world

            mountains lost and lost

                        the ark unable to land

when i separate from my hands,

            said the water,

                        whose journey will be done

one grain of rice

                        (for many bowls)

the guest left behind

crossing the river above the trees

                                                            —

                                                                        my flood raised to feather

late in our moon

and no

one

asleep in the barn

through ice works

            on maple buds—

                        —long walk to the sun

many times of being lost

            in place

like a lake between the waters

a child's cup of moonlight was the thread of my returning

something eternal

            worn down

                        to a man who believes he’s sleeping

my flaws drifting from stone to stone—becoming the white sky

waking the mountain to strike a small bell

in a nest shaped like death
      night lays its transparent eggs

the garden hardly seemed to breathe
      as i grew and it dreamed and we died

that star that fell up a crooked sky
      into the bed where its heart would stop

slowly up

the ladder

into thunder

was wonderful
to come home
to the goldfinch you've been watching

one burst of leaf fall

ahead of me

that only i later i see as prayer

thunder

elsewhere

chrysalis

shadow

sun

shadow

sun

one

a bellflower stalk

bent over

the flying cloud

the tree leaps

from squirrel

to me

hot pepper

picking

i am the one

something all alone is near

            thus the mountains of my past

                        come true

the sounds of a sail

this day

i put on the sun

i never knew

myself so well   

as in snow

too small to

                        feed a soul    the

                                                            broken shine

stains in your room at the end of the world

why does curiosity nesting in blue sand become egg

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