by Maxine Kumin Up attic， Lucas Harrison， God rest his frugal bones， once kept a tidy account by knifecut of some long-gone harvest. The wood was new....
by Yusef Komunyakaa The hills my brothers & I created Never balanced， & it took years To discover how the world worked. We could look at a tre...
by Wallace Stevens Poetry is the supreme fiction， madame. Take the moral law and make a nave of it And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus， The c...
by Mary Ann Samyn -She lay very still， looking up at the undersides of words. Pink was pink all the way through， like any organ might be， plucked from...
by Alfred Noyes The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees， The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas， The road was a ribbo...
by Crystal Bacon Cheap， made to travel they throw their tiny drumbeats out in stereo from the bed table to the work station. They fill the room with a...
by Mark Van Doren The hills of little Cornwall Themselves are dreams. The mind lies down among them， Even by day， and snores， Snug in the perilous kno...
by Maggie Anderson Who would have thought the afterlife would look so much like Ohio？ A small town place， thickly settled among deciduous trees. I liv...
by Gary Fincke In seventh grade， when we were alone for An afternoon， no chance of being caught， Silk was what we sought in our sisters' rooms. It...
by Li-Young Lee Tonight my brother， in heavy boots， is walking through bare rooms over my head， opening and closing doors. What could he be looking fo...