by May Swenson In the pond in the park all things are doubled： Long buildings hang and wriggle gently. Chimneys are bent legs bouncing on clouds below...
by Paul Celan Translated by Jerome Rothenberg Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at nig...
by Robert Creeley The words are a beautiful music. The words bounce like in water. Water music， loud in the clearing off the boats， birds， leaves. The...
by Michael Palmer He painted the mountain over and over again from his place in the cave， agape at the light， its absence， the mantled skull with blue...
by Kate Daniels A naked child is running along the path toward us， her arms stretched out， her mouth open， the world turned to trash behind her. She i...
by James Galvin I knew the end would be gone before I got there. After all， all rainbows lie for a living. And as you have insisted， repeatedly， The d...
by Anne Sexton Since you ask， most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing， unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns. Ev...
I am writing this letter just to inform you that the tide is turning. It is a fickle tide， one that has the presence of mind to alter its course. You ...
by Honor Moore The great poet came to me in a dream， walking toward me in a house drenched with August light. It was late afternoon and he was old， pa...
i. Snow geese in the light of morning sky， exactly at the start of spring. I was looking through the cracks of the blinds at my future which seemed ab...