Because it had been, quite literally, four decades since I last climbed a tree I stood a long while watching you overhead. Your elbows disappeared in the sheets of plum-colored leaves, so dark and cool in the heat. I pressed
The camouflaging wind gets your hair half mast but hey it’s not race, the wind at best catches in the craw of all, or it could be race, an aerodynamic planet of head putting out hair that wind is not
Out of the place I knew, I feel into another world in which I merged with my beloved, into a world where one and one make two but two so closely intertwined they seem more like a single entity –
The Absurd Self Looking Both Ways at Once Plato said the world is divided into a world of being and a world of becoming. Ecclesiastes, pessimist as he was, said there was nothing new under the sun.
i Where stars sleep on the calm black waters, pale Ophelia like some dear lily, her long unwinding veil about her, floats slowly. Far off in the woods, the cry of hunters. A thousand years have passed and
I lived between the hemisphere of songbirds and the hemisphere of men. The birds kept their necessary distance and the men their self-consciousness, their standing thereness. It was impossible to say for whose sake they were tortured. When one came
Nesting, the turtle seems to be crying even though she is simply secreting her salt. Her dozens bud limbs inside amniotic pillows as she leaves every egg in a cup of sand the size of her body, shaped like a
A strand of algae leaves its rubbery translucent swatch on her skin. Her first impulse is to peel it off lest a horror movie version of contagion unfold and her skin turn zombie green–telltale alien, more slime than flesh, attracting
clay votive offering Etruria, 3rd century BCE maybe three inches tall forget the museum’s numbers on the wrist look hard into the open palm instead take your time Image
The Muse and the Auctioneer’s Gavel: Learning About Poetry from First Editions For a decade and a half I have worked more or less contentedly as a rare book dealer, roughly half the number of years I’ve devoted to
January: and as I write tonight, mid- December, winter or what passes for such in Florida. Far ahead of schedule on this Editor’s Note, for I want to have the issue behind me before heading to Louisville for the holidays.
In this month’s installment, reviews editor Adam Tavel examines an emerging poet’s imaginative debut. Buried Choirs by Katharine Rauk Tinderbox Editions $15, 62 pages published July 2016 The work of Marianne Moore,
All manner of birds love this windbreak hedge thickly covering the slope of a dune, offering shadowy places to hide within and twigs to perch on for a moment in the sun. More heard than seen, they are apt to
I AM FLYING INTO MYSELF: BILL KNOTT’S SELECTED POEMS I met Bill Knott in late 1968, or in early 1969, at William Corbett’s house, a gathering place for poets in Boston’s South End. I’d read Knott’s highly acclaimed first