To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.

Love begets love. This torment is my joy.

I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.

Time marks us while we are marking time.

I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.