“The god of dirtcame up to me many times and saidso many wise and delectable things, I layon the grass listeningto his dog voice,frog voice; now,he said, and now,and never once mentioned foreverfrom, One or Two Things”

“And now my old dog is dead, and another I had after him, and my parents are dead, and that first world, that old house, is sold and lost, and the books I gathered there lost, or sold- but more books bought, and in another place, board by board and stone by stone, like a house, a true life built, and all because I was steadfast about one or two things: loving foxes, and poems, the blank piece of paper, and my own energy- and mostly the shimmering shoulders of the world that shrug carelessly over the fate of any individual that they may, the better, keep the Niles and Amazons flowing.”

“Percy wakes me (fourteen)Percy wakes me and I am not ready.He has slept all night under the covers.Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast.So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen counter Where he is not supposed to be. How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you Needed me, To wake me. He thought he would a lecture and deeply His eyes begin to shine.He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.He squirms and squeals: he has done something That he needed And now he hears that it is okay. I scratch his ears. I turn him over And touch him everywhere. He isWild with the okayness of it. Then we walk, then He has breakfast, and he is happy.This is a poem about Percy.This is a poem about more than Percy.Think about it.”

“The poet dreams of the classroomI dreamedI stood up in classAnd I said aloud:Teacher, Why is algebra important?Sit down, he said.Then I dreamedI stood upAnd I said:Teacher, I’m weary of the turkeysThat we have to draw every fall.May I draw a fox instead?Sit down, he said.Then I dreamedI stood up once more and said:Teacher, My heart is falling asleepAnd it wants to wake up. It needs to be outside.Sit down, he said.”

“for how many years have you gone through the houseshutting the windows,while the rain was still five miles awayand veering, o plum-colored clouds, to the northaway from youand you did not even know enoughto be sorry,you were gladthose silver sheets, with the occasional golden staple,were sweeping on, elsewhere,violent and electric and uncontrollable--and will you find yourself finally wanting to forgetall enclosures, includingthe enclosure of yourself, o lonely leaf, and will youdash finally, frantically,to the windows and haul them open and lean outto the dark, silvered sky, to everythingthat is beyond capture, shoutingi'm here, i'm here! now, now, now, now, now.”

“I know many lives worth living.”

“We’re not breaking up because you want to do the noble thing for me,” he said, his voice dropping low in warning, the edge there, dark and twisted. “You will never get away from me; you should resign yourself to that now.”“Lan––”“I’ll kill you and then myself, that’s a promise.”The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, I really should have worried.”