We keep asking where they have gonethose years we remember and wereach for them like hands in the night

even there a shining is flowing from all the stonesthough the eyes are not yet made that can see it

Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

On the last day of the worldI would want to plant a tree

part memory part distance remainingmine in the ways that I learn to miss you

My words are the garment of what I shall never be Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.

I offer you what I have myPoverty

Modern poetry, for me, began not in English at all but in Spanish, in the poems of Lorca.

So this is what I amPondering his eyes that could notConceive that I was a creature to run fromI who have always believed too much in words

UtteranceSitting over wordsVery late I have heard a kind of whispered sighingNot farLike a night wind in pines or like the sea in the darkThe echo of everything that has everBeen spokenStill spinning its one...

What you remember saves you.

Through all of youth I was looking for youwithout knowing what I was looking for