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Poetry

Poem of the Week
Everything doesn’t have to mean something, he once said. Now that he’s a father, I want to read him the thing I’m writing about fathers.
Poem of the Week
Am I here without me just as I was before when stars spoke.
Poetry
Another day, I read my poems and wonder: Where is the world?
Poem of the Week
The man protested, I didn’t do anything. He needed the job. I only kissed her.
Poetry
She gives her daughter her birth certificate and oil money: Go.
Poem of the Week
There are the short and decisive words: yes, no, now, never, love, death, poetry.
Poetry
Reader, you and I stand once more before the borderless.
Poem of the Week
We couldn’t tell which of us was a girl or a boy we gorged on dirt.
Poetry
He knows what happens before it happens. Next shift, next season.
Poetry
When a cobra eats it starts with the head, goes to the place that thinks.
Poetry
Even glaciers have phone lines even Roquefort has its soft tufts of sweet
Poetry
I wish to see the land release my heart from the corpse of longing.
Poem of the Week
Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the land.
Poetry
what happens in all these villages after we ride through them?
iPoems
The old dog of inertia gets up with a growl and shrinks out of the way.
Poem of the Week
Vultures liked to perch on the austere ledge outside my window.
Poetry
It seems too late for them to change, to find a way to survive awake.
Poem of the Week
We pried the last of the pallid squid from their crevices and ate them.
Poem of the Week
He phones from across the country after lying in the grass with another.
Poetry
All these barns with their busted spidery limbs strewn over the lupine.
Poem of the Week
Bees may not be bought. Our children may never know apples.
Poetry
It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker, ciao, Antonio.
Poem of the Week
may your harvest fit in a sack may none of your apples be sweet
Poetry
After the child died they mourned oddly. She wanted another.
N30B Winners
Find a hair in the rose bush, wrap it around a thorn until that thorn is soft.
iPoems
Each day I sing the valleys alive. Each night you find a dark pool.
Poem of the Week
Wrists will twist or twirl while the hand writes the wriest writs—lamps-lit.
Poetry
Song where a house becomes a dandelion in a puff of savage wind.
iPoems
My father was neither kind nor strong in his bruising.
Poem of the Week
Books are territory of the hands, hands that shook my spine.