When the house of flesh disappears in an earthquake of its own making, this house of wood and glass will stay fixed in its
always when I want to live I cry out when life is leaving me I cling to him I say—life don’t go yet his
so this is the last poem for you there won’t be any more I said then I sealed the letter and dropped it into
All quarter long they’d come into my office to recite a poem of their choice, nearly fifty students acting out the principle that a