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| The beloved is dead | |
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| Who wants to lose the world | |
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| When I open the Book | |
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| It's not magic; it isn't a trick | |
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| Sadness is there, too | |
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| Isis kneels on the banks | |
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| The poem is written on the body | |
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| "What is life?" | |
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| The things that die | |
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| I read the Book for years | |
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| I've known grief | |
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| I want to go back | |
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| How easy to give up hope | |
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| There's nothing occult going on | |
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| Can a river flow beside itself? | |
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| When Sappho wrote | |
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| How radiant and pale | |
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| Salt on the roads melts | |
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| The river has a single song | |
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| The world comes into the poem | |
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| Smart or dumb? Who cares? | |
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| Those who wake | |
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| If death, then grief, right? | |
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| Suppose you could evoke | |
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| Those dreams in which a phantom | |
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| Everything dies. Nothing dies | |
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| Silence | |
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| The beloved has gone away | |
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| Some of the poems are clear | |
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| Tears and laughter | |
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| Reading and writing poems | |
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| Lighten up, lighten up | |
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| Too many mysteries | |
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| To feel, to feel, to feel | |
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| Sometimes happy, sometimes sad | |
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| Or is it loss ahead | |
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| Concentrating on those motions | |
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| To lose the loved one | |
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| Even the saddest poems have journeyed | |
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| Nothing more beautiful than the body | |
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| Someone else called out | |
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| Why should the grave be final? | |
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| Listening to Bach's solo suites | |
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| Now the snow is falling | |
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| It's winter and I think of spring | |
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| I never planned to die | |
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| When my kids look for me I hope | |
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| How small the eyes of hate | |
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| How large the eyes of love | |
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| Scratched with a stick in snow | |
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| To become the tree | |
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| Could it all be said in a single poem | |
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| Who can measure the gratitude | |
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| When we're young there's lots | |
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| To add our own suffering | |
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| To hold a pane of glass | |
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| Nesting dolls | |
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| Of course, a book about living | |
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| When you are sad | |
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| To be alive | |
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| Calm down, calm down | |
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| So obvious that the voice can cease | |
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| Facing away from the light | |
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| Weeping, weeping, weeping | |
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| The human heart | |
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| To loll in a sensual torpor | |
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| I saw my own body | |
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| How to exhaust the inexhaustible? | |
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| Time to shut up | |
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| We'd only just met | |
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| Snow on the tree branch | |
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| Tired of the body? | |
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| You might think | |
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| All the different books you read | |
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| You can read the world | |
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| How badly the world needs words | |
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| How the crocus pops up | |
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| The dandelion, too | |
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| Oh, I know: the beloved | |
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| They said to me: here | |
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| Let's remake the world with words | |
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| In the spring swamp | |
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| Weighed down with the weight | |
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| Humid morning | |
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| The sun: a hot hand | |
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| No one is grateful | |
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| How could that Chinese poet | |
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| July sun on the green leaves | |
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| Hummingbird's furious | |
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| Whitman's list of the things he could see | |
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| Today only a single poem | |
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| Waking now, and we didn't even know | |
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| No one I ever believed said | |
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| The beloved often | |
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| Spasm and sadness | |
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| To Guillaume Apollinaire, the beloved | |
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| Saying the word | |
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| Not the first lessons of grief | |
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| We exist in the mortal world only | |
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| Skitterbugs on the stream's surface | |
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| How is it I'm tired | |
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| The grapes taste good | |
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| Some say you're lucky | |
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| When you're afraid | |
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| How can lines | |
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| The poet approaches the lectern | |
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| Bittersweet, bittersweet | |
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| Ripeness of summer | |
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| Wildness of the world | |
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| There's the daisy | |
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| Yes, our human time is finite | |
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| Last night, a huge storm | |
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| All that sorrow | |
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| When we lost the beloved | |
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| Rain last night | |
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| Naked before the beloved | |
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| No postmortems, please | |
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| Oh, to be deeply naked | |
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| I thought I was hunting | |
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| Long night on the road | |
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| If we could have the world | |
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| Autumn with its too-muchness | |
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| Is the beloved greedy | |
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| Eyes blurred with tears | |
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| My mother's joy | |
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| What suffering! | |
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| What did someone cynically | |
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| A song of resurrection played | |
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| The world looks | |
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| When the world | |
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| Not deepest grief | |
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| If deepest grief is hell | |
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| And it happens, of course | |
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| This room crowded | |
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| Clearing out the room | |
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| I put the beloved | |
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| Not the loss alone | |
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| Memories: embers | |
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| Scar they stare at | |
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| Now the leaves are falling fiercely | |
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| Not to make loss beautiful | |
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| The beloved moves through the world | |
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| The world so huge and dark | |
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| Going to the reading | |
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| You went to the reading | |
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| Expecting so much | |
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| Such a shaking | |
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| The poem didn't express | |
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| That desolations is the door | |
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| Some days it's all fuzzy | |
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| Body of the beloved | |
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| How lucky we are | |
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| For me, my brother | |
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| Invisible distance between | |
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| Words not just the empty | |
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| Hold off, rain | |
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| Where did the beloved go? | |
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| Even before speech | |
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| The motions so cautious | |
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| To see the beloved | |
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| Were we invited? | |
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| Acrobatic postures I enjoyed | |
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| If a peach leads you into the world | |
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| Autumn | |
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| Sudden shower | |
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| Do words outlast | |
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| Did the beloved die? | |
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| Why should it all | |
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| Black marks | |
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| No longer a part | |
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| You lost the beloved | |
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| And if not you, then who? | |
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| An anthology gathered | |
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| His song was about the world | |
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| About the Author | |