One Composing
–A.R. Ammons
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
one composing
poetry
what milkman leaps for
What Milkman Leaps For
–francine j. harris
Photo by Sangga Rima Roman Selia on Unsplash
jim limber
Jim Limber in Heaven is a Nexus at which the Many Heavens of the Multiverse Converge
–Shane McCrae
Photo by Kristaps Ungurs on Unsplash
books
Books
–Andrei Codrescudeath covers me with fine dust.
i love used fat books. they are
like used fat bodies coming out of sleep
covered with fingerprints and shiny
snail trails.
i wish to read the way i love:
jumping from mirror to mirror like a drop of oil
farther and farther from my death.
but god gives us fat books and fat bodies
to use for different reasons
and less a metaphor i cannot say
what haunts me
Photo by Robert Anasch on Unsplash
song
Song
–Laura KasischkeThe floor of the brain, the roof
of the mouth, the locked
front door, the barn
burned down, a dog
tied to a tree, not howling, a dark
shed, an empty garage, a basement
in which a man might sip
his peace, in peace,
and a table
in a kitchen
at which
the nightingales feasted on fairy tales,
the angels stuffed themselves with fogAnd a tiny room at the center of it all,
and a beautiful woman the size of a matchstick
singing the song that ruined my father:his liver
his lifeThe kind of song a quiet man
might sing a silent house around.
Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash
Fifty
Fifty
–Marie Howe
Photo by Paul Hanaoka on Unsplash
50
Fifty
–Christian Wiman“Renouncing kingship like a snot of phlegm”
I go out into the park. I have my death with me,
iron friend, and a few feather regrets
that one by one lift from me in the wind.
I have two daughters and one cloud, an old oak
and a great love, elected solitude, given sun.
There never was a now this golden one.
Photo by Simon Wilkes on Unsplash
the subject of retreat
The Subject of Retreat
–Yona HarveyYour black coat is a door
in the storm. The snow
we don’t mention
clings to your boots & powders
& puffs. & poof. Goes.
Dust of the fallen. Right here
at home. The ache
of someone gone-missing. Walk it off
like a misspoken word.
Mound of snow. Closed door.
I could open it.Or maybe just, you know—
brush it off.Then what? The snow
on the other side. The sound
of what I know & your, no, inside it.
on starting
On Starting
–Phil KayeYour ideas are fish
you are trying to catch
with your bare handsonly with a quiet mind
is the surface glassy enough
for you to plunge your arms below
hold on to
the squirming gift
wide-eyed & fat
stunned at its own reflection
as it inhales out of the water
contagion
Contagion
–P.K. Page
Photo by Aleksandr Eremin on Unsplash