Look at us, she said. We are all of us in this room
still waiting to be transformed.
the lake a lake, the bird a bird, or but a fake
shadow, a half-thing?
into a coin, what’s left of the body
in the belly of a bird
We lay on rugs on spongy moss
huddled for warmth
blooded to rustfruit, eyebright
I have a poem in which the universe is like a vocal cord
no deeper meaning.
Louise Gluck, “An Endless Story”
Michael Farrell, “Verlaine in the Lake”
Sam Sax, “Bury”
James Harpur, “The Perseids”
Nam Le, “Aubade”
Alice Notley, “Why Are You Writing These”
Sandra Lim, “Chanson Douce”