Autumn rains darken azure-deep skies.

Dharma companions filling mountains, / a sangha forms of itself: chanting, sitting

When you came on twisted rocky paths, / who welcomed you at my mountain gate?

Returning you to StoneTower Mountain, we bid farewell

In night quiet, spring mountains stand

Crystalline waters quiet settling night. / Moonlight leaving idleness everywhere

Frail water-chestnut vines never settle, / and light cottonwood blossoms fly easily.

In these twilight years, I love tranquility / alone.

I was here. But not only here, my lord

After the first night, I was a regular: the men in the front row called me dear brother and saved room for my recording gear and me.

What? Are you still scheming against the sun? As sure as you live, as sure as I am, in the world to come the sun will possess sevenfold the light that it now possesses.

On the scrap is a picture of Snoopy in dark glasses. What's this? I ask. Acid, she replies.

I don't know / nor want to know her name, and maybe that's / the reason I can't breathe,

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Now, if I look for old masters here, / I find empty rivers and mountains.

When I was in your arms one time you told me your world was warm, I said. Now I just make you cold.

According to the evidence of the story there was nothing that could account for what came after other than the presence of the devil.

the smell of a language, a country song, / an oath on a stone, a cry

To Bod Iwan a fair wind came / through the winter leaves aflame,

Smooth, dark slabs; floor to roof boxed / with stone shelfs like doorless cupboards.

From the airplane, streaks of light pick out / a little town, plumped down there by chance:

Birth's struggle done, the midwife sets off home / down Neegirt's fields, with lit peat held for light.

And all the pointless fights that come / from thinking we can only see one way,

The Emperor Constantine / battling with a traitor / three hundred years later

When he touches the strings / that tied them together the first time

the blackberries are nowhere as sweet / as the snow we had last year.

You are fresh words / on the old stone of time.

I’d like to make picturesinstead of poems.That wayeach one would have its taleof sales and robberiesof rooms where it had hungof women and dear friendswho got it as a gift.They would have to be…

she'll turn your dreams to Scotch mist, / bone comb your hair with tugging wind / scrub your faces with rain.

there is no stone where the hawk soars, / no hawk where the stones stand