Now All My Teachers Are Dead Except

I Offer You What I Have My Poverty

After An Age Of Leaves And Feathers Someone Dead Thought Of The Mountain As Money And Cut The Trees That Were Here And The Wind And The Rain At Night. It Is Hard To Say It.

Of Course There Is Nothing The Matter With The Stars It Is My Emptiness Among Them While They Drift Farther Away In The Invisible Morning

What You Remember Saves You.

This Is What I Have Heard At Last The Wind In December Lashing The Old Trees With Rain Unseen Rain Racing Along The Tiles Under The Moon Wind Rising And Falling Wind With Many Clouds Trees In The Night Wind.