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People are black on silver this mid-day,
Poems are not what you head for, 117
Poor little bastards..., 240
Quick slapping, shaking of fronds, 230
Rain now with dark coming on, 168
Rain slanting past and no place here to
run, 192
local News, 210
River, dangerous -- green water, 220
Saint Kenneth Cooper, with your
stethoscope, 191
Saturday night. The ranger's shut the
gate, 183
Seek truth -- slow truth, exacting truth...,
...Self, 171
September night, 235
She moved so fast, 11
Sick of the slippery rot old oaks beget,
Silver Creek isn't silver, 237
Slipped through the fi ngers of my
writing-hand, 180
Smashed on the pavement up ahead, 66
Sometimes I look inside, 160
Sometimes my run down here's like
putting on, 194
So you of the slow-changing room, 288
...spat out the wine and wafer, 62
Spring again and now we'll see, 130
Stillness of evening: Murasaki, 71
Strong cold gusts rake the ridge, 242
Such ancient commonplaces as I
shunned when young, 122
Supper and wine..., 279
-- suppose the words came in, 219
Surviving their own depths and bounds,
Than sky or water. freenn tthom her
hands, 188
That is soon over, others come in view,
That was a long time back, 124
The birds keep to their routines, 264
The bulge of the sea above the benches
shows, 196
The camellia leaves against it, 163
The child Kintoro..., 72
The courtier Fujiwara no Yasumasa
stands, 71
The crimson sun slipping down through
the haze, 195
The early morning air at streamside, 88
The ebbing moonlit sea has drawn, 71
The enormous silver maples by the
house, 251
The fi rst cold day of winter, darkness
near, 208
The fi t of remembering, 408
The general is seated, 70
The Japanese farmer, 159
The lamp throws a pleasant warmth, 170
The little lizard waits -- slender, 97
The little rattler sleeps on, snug, 92
The man down the creek owns a fruit
tree, 240
The mockingbird is quiet and stays out
of sight, 236
The mystery's not that like the poet you
are made of dust & spittle, 61
The near water heaves bright gray, then
deepening, 194
The other fl owers are long, 98
The red sand like a sea without an edge,
There is containment by small, 281
There is much that's wondrous, much
that awakens dread, 24
There, leaning alone, 54
There must have been fi ve hundred here
last week, 181
There's a movement, and a snake
suddenly underfoot, 88