From What We Cannot Hold The Stars

This Is What I Have Heard At Last The Wind In December Lashing The Old Trees With Rain Unseen Rain Racing Along The Tiles Under The Moon Wind Rising And Falling Wind With Many Clouds Trees In The Night Wind.

Sitting Over Words Very Late I Have Heard A Kind Of Whispered Sighing Not Far Like A Night Wind In Pines Or Like The Sea In The Dark The Echo Of Everything That Has Ever Been Spoken Still Spinning Its One Syllable Between The Earth And Silence.

I Offer You What I Have My Poverty

The Story Of Each Stone Leads Back To A Mountain.

Modern Poetry, For Me, Began Not In English At All But In Spanish, In The Poems Of Lorca.