The World Is Absolutely Out

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

What Can The Dove Of Jesus Give You Now But Wisdom, Exile? Stand And Live, The Dove Has Brought An Olive Branch To Eat.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot