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I'm going to close with two more poems.
It was just going to be a single, somewhat longer poem,
but before that I want to read something, first thing
I ever had-- not the first thing I ever
had published, but the first thing I felt good about that I
had published.
It's called "Reaching for the End."
"The kingdoms of newsprint were in jeopardy, green fires
climbing on the street.
The alphabets had forbidden any visitors.
The old man lay down on the porches of your eyes.
No papers could hide their blue cigars, but all you saw
was money, the bills.
You didn't see us loosening our belts.
Frozen for too long, your eyes ran out of their sockets.
We were the trees that were dying.
We grew on the edge of the sky, the million thirsty hands
reaching for the end, with the sky
getting ready to fall on us.
The yellow butterflies had all become leaves,
with the sound of hooves beating near like locomotives
and the still warm sand."