And the last poem I'll read is "December,"
which concludes that series and will conclude the reading.
I had hoped to open this up for questions afterward
but my time is gone and so I'll just linger
and if you have questions perhaps you
can ask them individually.
I probably won't be able to answer them
but something to do.
This is "December."
The trees are-- the trees are a blond haze scarred
by the emptiness of magpies.
The road follows me at a distance
and I come back to this place with nothing
in my hands for the river, telling the gospel of winter
every word true and no one to believe me.
The snow is dying for all of us.
I come back like an empty revolver,
hoping that something will happen here to change the past.
But the same gray board is nailed to the same tree
and the past remains.
I pile up a small mound of stones for its monument.
This is where the words died and I buried them.
Now, I am wearing my tongue for a coat.
Thank you very much.
[APPLAUSE]