Of poetry they say much
Leaves whisper, for instance,
But who will say—
Leaves to themselves are alien
And lost to their neighbors
**
Was anyone ever as lonely
As Lorca in New York?
I was blind
In summer rain—
Child beside a grave
**
So much talk of poems
As if we could merge
With the stones
In this building
Beside the cemetery
**
What did Jesus do with the coin
With Tiberius on the one side
Where is it buried
Under whose house
What was on the other face?
**
Reading the old critic
“Taking it in” as they say
His fascinations
Are zoological
And not bookish at all
**
The one promise of poems:
In you I am a present tense
Always
That’s something
Now we’re life overloaded
Planet of the Blind 