When I was born
God would pull me back
if he could saying Too soon for
this one, but it was done.

I ran fast across the soccer field,
ranged the ball and struck again,
but America didn’t play soccer yet,
too soon for a school team.

She was the other me, the one
in all my lives I loved or who,
when I was her, loved me.
I found her too soon,
an addict this time around,
and she pulled away from me.

Your poetry is incomparable
said Phil Levine, George Oppen
was my friend who taught me
about the paper breathing,
Chris Isherwood loved me.

Who talks here? A shadow for you,
not one single admirer left,
my poetry is the only
outcome of my life.

Soon even the peach blossoms blow,
it doesn’t matter anymore
whether anyone reads along.
I’m rattling apart.