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One of the public
problems with these poems

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is that they're so short.

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And when you read them, they
tend to sort of go past you.

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I mean, there may be other
private problems with them.

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But so I tend to
kind of-- well, I

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pause a lot between
the poems, hoping

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that whatever little
resonance there may be

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will trickle out to you, before
I lay another one on you.

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I think it's time now
to try another one.

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I'm going to call
it "Sentences,"

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which is four sentences.

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The ash fish has been
away for a long time now,

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the snow transparent.

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The white cane
rakes back and forth

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in the hush, no sweet
sound from the leaves.

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Whatever is dead stays dead.

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The lighted and cold blue
blank pavilions of the sky.

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The sand, the crystal's
ring in the bushy ear--

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voices logy with
sleep, their knapsacks

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the color of nothing, full of
the great spaces they still

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must cross.

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The trees take care of
their own salvation,

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and rocks swell with
their business--

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and there, on the clean
cloth of the river,

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a Host is floating without end.

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Heaven, that stray dog, eats
on the run and keeps moving.

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