So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.

I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.

May my silences become more accurate.

(I measure time by how a body sways.)

I have gone into the waste lonely places