Yes, I am home again, and alone.
Today wrote letters, then took my dog
Out through the sad November woods.

How strange to be sitting in this room,
to be noticing the windows — clearer than air—
how they let in everything, the leaves,

For a while I shall still be leaving.
Looking back at you as you slip away
Into the magic islands of the mind.

tonight I was reminded of our house in England,
the little record player that always skipped.
Our dozen records seemed such a luxury, although

We are happy walking on the dead,
sea breezes milling with the herbs ground down
on the hard pestle of the earth

I want my beard
To be as long as
A road,

you must get well right
away your mistress loves

you and she needs you to

“What I am is not important, whether I live or die —
          It is the same for me, the same for you.
What we do is important. This is what I have learnt.

Beside my bed the lamplight glows: a glass base
filled with shells containing
news of ocean. Each shell encloses what the sea

Today was mixed—some flurries, some sun.
Skied into woodcut snow scenes, then home,
discussed Flaubert with neighbor, the one