Robert D. Wilson PDF Print E-mail


emptiness . . .
your life, cicada,
like mine,
a song sung to
metallic locusts



what to
the laborer are
moonlit lakes . . .
a line of snails
pacing sunlight 



and you,
whatever i imagine
you to be . . .
walking tautly
across a rope bridge



the heron
in my back pocket is
more than a poem . . .
wings sculpting clouds
into a child's dream



sunrise . . .
the whisper of
clinging to a
dew drop world