Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.

Death Is A Master From Germany.

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

Tall Poplars--human Beings Of This Earth!