Will be but corpses dressed in frocks, who cannot speak to birds or rocks.
Clouds sink down the hills Coffee is hot again. The dog Turns and turns about, stops and sleeps.
All those years and their moments— Crackling bacon, slamming car doors, Poems tried out on friends, Will be one more archive, One more shaky text.
Range after range of mountains. Year after year after year. I am still in love.
A great poet does not express his or her self; he expresses all of our selves.
Our relation to the natural world takes place in a place.