If I silently go past, then know-
I am too enraptured with...

When mincing
at the margin...

When I die
I want my body burned...

There is goodness in living
a life like a young river...

You, poet,
with your toes clenched in river mud...

It's storming outside, in that
theatrical, brooding, wallowing...

I.
Mornings tumbled in bed...

Walking together down a path crowded with moss,
white oaks, and thorny bracken we pause...

I sing of heroes.
Of Achilles and Patroclus...

Lighthanded,
she whisks a spoon around the kettle...

Before the waves and waves of tribes
crested and splashed against the emerald shores of...

There are some things I know,
and the rest are steeped with me...