And this one-- if I can find it.
When they're numbered it's really tough.
For Rex Veeder.
Number "22."
"Restless in the pine soft night,
I rise in search of wood piles.
The air is well mooned, iced and clear.
The axe blade, silver sharp.
I select the stump, crosscut, and frozen dried.
Ungloved, I finger heft and balance patiently.
Now at last, it is time.
The upright wood stays stiff against the final moment
as my strike calls out a quick, curt, simple sound.
The wood splits clean.
I bend low over it, the halves bloodless,
fresh, aromatic as matured pipes.
And, between, a birth of air filled with the white frost
of my own raw breath.
I sleep now like a child clutching a new nickel."
[APPLAUSE]