All around me,
separated four or five to a pen...

Dark
emptiness...

Worshiping our words
loses substantial meaning...

My aunt never married;
on occasion my mother...

You who cast your living snobbery against
our years long past ought to bear it lightly...

Squat ugly gnarled trunk
tapering branches flower...

Comes a time when children leave;
they take their youth with them...

The poppy fields of West India and Burma provided...
Victoria Peak...

It is a rare heart that appreciates
the compromises others make...

It is a smallish park built for soccer;
thousands of weekend kids play...

Old Glory is smartly marched down the aisle
when the opening ceremonies start...

It is an Italian elm,
branches sweeping...