It’s that dream we carry with us
That something wonderful will happen,
That it has to happen,
That time will open,
That the heart will open,
That doors will open,
That the mountains will open,
That wells will leap up,
That the dream will open,
That one morning we’ll slip in
To a harbor that we’ve never known.

What’s gone is gone.
What’s lost is lost.

What’s felt as pulse–
what’s mind, what’s home.

Who’s here, where’s there–
what’s patience now.

What thought of all,
why echo it.

Now to begin–
Why fear the end.

We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
While the silent moon shines clearly;
I’ll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I lo’e thee dearly;
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely Charmer!

I am an unquiet bird
My head falls forward with fatigue at evening
wings folded
several successes several failures, yes
it’s been a long loveless day

If I’d hunted the stones to the south

. .(the stone outside us is beauty
I might have done better
Well
tomorrow,
no matter, tomorrow. . .
. .(and the stone within us is love
. . . .both

stone will bust the beak
or break the foot or the wing
there is no other way to live

I suppose we are all Orpheus if we would

. .No, I’m not
dozing or dreaming of home
. .I am home.

like an old friend
with stories to tell
we sit together
remembering our past
associations
both together
and apart
we never met
but knew each other intimately
what you wrote spoke to me
and I read you
a connection was made
though years apart
having made your acquaintance
after your death
a miscalculation on my part
but you still speak
to me now
through your work
I carry
in every household I’ve lived
you have been there
and from time to time
like say now
I open you up
and continue the conversations
forever grateful
for having you
in my life

This star, see,
she comes up and leaves
a track in the sea.

Whatcha gonna do, swim
down that track or
drown in the sea?

I see faces
more often than not
in other faces
it is as if
the people I know/knew
are here in people I pass
on the street in the market on the ferry
these constant reminders
of who filtered through my life
could be disconcerting
if I wasn’t so used to it
there’s Alex reading a book
oh and Carl in the corner
staring out at sea
and Kathy on the bus
sitting next to the old man
who looks a bit like Albert
and there’s Vic
talking to that girl
whose name you can’t quite remember
Marion or Miriam
or something like that
the one who lived up the coast
from you in Malibu
who fell asleep
on the floor
at that reunion
at Joan Barnett’s
when Billy was showing us all
he could be sensitive
and that one there
she looks like that assistant producer
who took you…