Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

I pause to hear a racketing triumph of cicadas
setting life's pitch, but to live at their pitch
of joy is unendurable.

A stone house waits on the steps.

Perhaps if I'd nurtured some divine disease,
like Keats in eternal Rome, or Chekhov at Yalta,
something that sharpened the salt fragrance of sweat
with the lancing rib of my pen, my gift would increase,
as the hand of a cloud turning over the sea will alter
the sunlight--clouds smudged like silver plate,
leaves that keep trying to summarize my life.