Andrea Cohen

May 12, 2013 Cohen Andrea



Some people, after the day

has passed, scratch on X


inside that box, as if

the past were a treasure


map and the sweet spot

for digging just missed.


Others, more hurried, employ

a slash-and-yearn policy,


their single diagonal suggesting

a ladder that showed up


too late for actual scrambling.

At the edge of known


physics, theorists like to say

days and minutes don’t exist.


But calendars do: you can mass

produce them with snapshots


of aspirations in Lisbon and Madrid.

In a pinch, in winter, they make


fine logs for the fire; in summer,

fans for shadeless expanses.


The fans burn too. Days are

like that: elastic and highly flammable.

Andrea Cohen is the author of eight poetry collections, including Everything, Nightshade, and The Sorrow Apartments (forthcoming). She directs the Blacksmith House Poetry Series in Cambridge, MA.