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Though my hearing is never
acute enough to detect
the soft script of the fly’s footfalls
as it dances on the window,
and cleans its wings with its...
After a time
After a time of writing
I stop to let my mind breathe.
This is necessary, otherwise
the thoughts turn gray and
Even God had to rest
So, I didn’t latch onto a holy word
and go into space and, ethereal,
lose touch with my body. But God,
in those thirty slow minutes, you...
O lesser flake of feathers, O downyshore-winged picker of cocklesand mites, twig-legged runner through ripples,who was it called you out of extinction...
Consider its extravagant fertility! How
dependably it breeds itself in the marrow
to fill again what drains away, the rivers of bright
platelets singing in their arterial dark
Count on the faith that links usas we pray, about odd thingsin each other’s lives, nothing ruinous—a lost ring, an aching tooth. Evena request that we forget after...
There’s not much I don’t know about you—yellow, red, sweet—grubbed up roots and all.Essential for a vigorous cuisine, alertingthe sense—the crackle of your paper brown outer...
It leaps, breaking the skin of the lakeof possibility, this thing that flashes steel—this trout of a poem, wild with life, rainbow scales...
The pale bits—twigs, fibers,pine needles—sun-struck,fall through the lazy airas if yearning to be embodied inmy knitting, like gold flecks woven into...
The bell-ringers rise andfall with the weight of their bells,holding on for dear life to the pulls,the ropes rough in their hands,the young ones lifted up, up...
We see God in the shape
he shows to us. For some, fire.
For others, holy smoke, oil,
a running river, sheep’s crook,
muscular right arm that holds...
A striking and apt image enhances the cover of this new collection of interviews with 19 leading American poets....
What next, she wonders,
with the angel disappearing, and her room
suddenly gone dark.
Jesus might have died
a dozen times before he died.
An incidental death—tetanus
from a nail, a splinter.
A baptismal drowning.
A drink from a tainted well.
The forest floor bleak, chokedwith old leaves, winter wet. Againstthe evidence, buds on the wild dogwoodsglisten, listen for a signal, lining up...
Stability is greatly overrated.Why would I ever want to sit still and smug as a rock,...
Simple yet magical....
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