Only the purity of the falling
Snow, will mark your going.
Not the petals of roses. True
Roses are not in season.
...
that fall when
Richard took a gun
and blew out his poet brain
...
they
those two
they hate the paper
the books
...
three days before my first reading
I am out in the rain
the air: cool deep thick
I feel like
...
the snows in Buffalo
are as white
and as pure
as you seemed
...
on our wedding night
I buried myself into
your arms
you buried yourself
...
your smile brings the dark
that I peer into
I think this
watching you
...
On Mondays
I sleep late
always... well, not always
not today, not this one
...
driving
on thirty-sixth avenue
half-way between
the hospital
...
Quando sono solo
e mancan le parole
tu mia luna, tu sei qui con me'
...