Skip to content
Menu

Poetry

When everything has left you, at the end,
the world will come down to a few old words
you will see new because you’ve chosen to.
Your last breath will be like my first today.

So I start here, in that extremity—
or is it just simplicity I’ve earned
by learning to be, the page like a prayer,
a place to ask, to wait, and then to hear
such musics as I’ve never heard before?

Some might think I write about poetry.
There’s poetry here; it’s incidental.
I’m talking about the spaces in the soul
that correspond to what is there or not—
the not is in the sky I call heaven.
Heaven most mornings I choose to invent—


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

If you like Image, you’ll love ImageUpdate.

Subscribe to our free newsletter here:


Pin It on Pinterest