ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 10

FRESH START
the author of many leaves...

I ASK YOU
what I am about to do and what...

untitled
The work defines itself, pulls itself...

LARRY MILLER
when you call back there to order the flowers...

ADDENDUM TO LARRY MILLER
punched him in the stomach once...

MY FORTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY
the balance point between years...

THE DROUGHT
if the drought means anything we haven't been told...

I SPEND
hours alone with my books...

SO FAR AS I CAN
the trees at night stretch out...

ANGEL MOUND
stone spades hammers awls...

untitled
sleep drunk from a glass of sleep...

EAST
East, innocence, enormous, a blush over half the sky. Now that...

WHAT IS FUCKED UP ABOUT THIS
is a question that can be answered...

CAN'T STOP TALKING
sat so still you noticed...

SETTLEMENT
1....

PAUSE ON THE ROAD IN CUMBERLAND GAP TENNESSEE
It was speed, the technology of rapidity, that made the nation pos-...

ON THE STAIRS IN THE DARK
it is late to be starting again...

THREE SLEEPS
a sleep that wanders...

WINTER PRAISES
of abandoned nests...

untitled
what will always be true?...

KEEPING AT IT
I recite the alphabet in the traditional way...

TALKING TO THE STONES
I am living before you dissolve...

NOT LAMENTING
a lament I am forbidden to speak...

A:
I think it's that I always had the feeling that what is really true,...

HAVE COME HERE
even when I'm late...

THE DAY AFTER THE DAY AFTER
a place in the paperwork...

7/25/00
beetles crushed between my fingers...

MY CURRENT MOOD
certain observations have broken their heads...

STILL
making no effort if I can...

GOLDFINCH ON A WIRE
black line in his feet...

SUMMER PRAISES
the ground-filling rain...

LISTENING TO
the music that keeps me up late...

THE STONE BOAT
that sled of thick oak planks...

DISAPPOINTMENT
under the shade of the words I wrote...

AUGUST
the fields with their fine catch...

AT THE ENCORE CAFE
with your roast potatoes...

WANDERING POEM
on the road...

MY VACANCY
the old hours come back...

untitled
I protest...

8/3/01
when I go inside...

ONE MOTION
swifts of the city come and go...

THE YEAR OF MY ABSENCE
a number of stones under my feet...

REFUSAL
I am awake now...

11/26/01
in the dark before dawn the stars...

WINTER GENESIS I
mornings on this stone seat...

WINTER GENESIS II
under cold tree branches stacked stones outline...

A:

I think it's that I always had the feeling that what is really true,
really valuable is hidden in small, insignificant places.  You know,
like when you're walking someplace and you notice at the back of a
building, right where things necessary to whatever goes on in there
are carried in, a place that's been let go--tall weeds, grass gone
to seed, the steps a bit crumbled, trash or discarded objects left to
sit and make little decomposing sculptures--that sort of thing. I
don't know if I'm saying this right. Anyway, these places or things,
no one notices them, but they've got these bright little flowers
showing, or an odd combination of shapes and lines, there's something
vital there and also something that's failed and is passing, forgotten.
Kind of a bit of history that no one cares about, but it contains the
only wisdom we need, the only comfort available. Again, I think I'm
not saying this well, and maybe I've wandered far from the subject.
Anyway, it's this impulse I have to value what's small, thrown away,
forgotten, but composing its own secret, highly important space.  So
maybe I have this need to leave things short or broken and to discard
them, meaning leave them where they can be found but not where they
call attention to themselves, and my vanity makes me think that by
this means I've given them an importance, a significant insignificance
that some more public and complete construction would lack.


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