from To What Strangers, What Wel­come: A Sequence of Short Poems (1964)

[1]

I drive West­ward. Tumble and loco weed
Per­sist. And in the vacan­cies of need,
The leisure of desire, whirl­winds a face
As lumi­nous as love, lost as this place.

[11]

I drive East­ward. The ethics of return,
Like the night sound of coy­otes on a hill
Heard in eroded canyons of con­cern,
Dis­poses what has hap­pened, and what will.