The Damage Of Teaching: The Constant Contact

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

I Teach My Sighs To Lengthen Into Songs.

I Learn By Going Where I Have To Go.

Pain Wanders Through My Bones Like A Lost Fire

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.