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Stormchild

A raindrop mirrorsThe whole typhoonStretched like a spoonUpon her clear Curvaceous skin,Synoptic nudeFully tattooedFor one instant With her whole kind’sCreation mythSo that her fall Expresses allThe other mindsShe’s fallen with. —Amit . . . . Continue Reading »

This Tinnitus

            i This tinnitus—its tintinnabulationsso whiningly thin.             ii This tinnitus—tiny and tinny and yetso terribly loud.             iii This tinnitus—its flatline shrilling is . . . . Continue Reading »

The Genius of Wordsworth

“I wandered lonely as a cloud.” So begins a famous poem of William Wordsworth’s, one that was often taught to schoolchildren back when memorizing poetry was part of education. The poet comes upon “a crowd, / A host, of golden daffodils.” The flowers flutter and dance before him, their . . . . Continue Reading »

To Herod at Christmas

Fear not, despite the evening’s crippled shinsdropping to dust again from your rooftop view.The anvil coming down upon the hammeryou witnessed in your dream will be for good. You are warned like any other—by the starsand distant fires, by lamp and even bythe inevitable blatant morning . . . . Continue Reading »

Echoes

“Do the kitchen? I’ll give you Swedish Fish!”I hear negotiations reach a peak,numbers flying, the clatter of each dish—the kids are home, visiting for the week. That gummy currency bought lots of things—a chore, “shotgun,” a TV show, a wish—less like cash and more like . . . . Continue Reading »

Evensong

What are they saying, the birds coasting at sunset, getting ready for bed,dive-bombing into darkened trees where you heard them fold their wings, or is that in your head? Coasting at sunset, almost ready for bed,their spread wings fan out, shadowing earth,preening their wings—also in . . . . Continue Reading »

Psalm to Our Lady Queen 
of the Angels

Let us sing to our city a new song,A song that remembers its name and its founders—Los Pobladores, the forgotten forty-four,Who built their pueblo beside a small river. They named the river for the Queen of the Angels,Nuestra Senora Reina de los Angeles.Poor, they were forced to the margins of . . . . Continue Reading »

Divine Comedy

It is love that lamps illuminelove in rattled kettles’ steamstaccato love in car horns, squeaking brakeslove between the marching linesin books, battalions, lives, and weeks the hum of love beyond the city lightsa full moon—love—behind the black-lined treesat night—a wound of . . . . Continue Reading »

Ash

And in the end is all ash,the translation of our praiseto ruin, and to long daysand nights at the window, the sash drawn tight against the dark—cold outside and colder stillthe stone, the hearth, the sillof an old house of bleached, stark bone? What is and what mighthave been tumble towards . . . . Continue Reading »

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