“For poems are not
words, after all,
but fires for the
cold, ropes let
down to the lost,
necessary as bread
in the pockets of
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need a wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
A poem should be equal to:
A poem should not mean
But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and
then is heard no more.