3 My days are burned inside of hollow mornings, With only skins of things To pull and trim, With seagulls On the bay shore yawning, And silent phone calls bursting loud with rings. My nights misplaced, My evenings still are burning, With seagulls throwing shells from heights To crack. When will my lowest tide of wreck and yearning Break on the edge Between my luck and lack? How do you sense the signals of my worry? How do I know that this is you Who rings? When will this silence of your wired dry throat Crack in its shell Falling till now from spring?


Confined Verse
Collected Poems