Tagged poems

G EMIL REUTER

Winter Doldrums on Sabbatical It is the last Sunday of January in a winter that has been brutally cold. After a week of worry you call to say the birds have returned to the feeders. A purple finch, mourning dove sparrows are feeding again. On schedule the thaw has arrived, temperature has risen to 55…

GARY HARDAWAY

Where is Everything that Escapes? How did I become this gray, decrepit creature in the mirror, splotched and sagging?   Whatever august grace and wisdom I imagined when young and harassed escapes the mirror’s crisp edges.   Limits We can apprehend beauty only by framing it with the photographic paper’s edge or the novel’s margins…

DAVID ACKLEY

Ghosts …ghosts still resentful, ghosts far from home… After Hwang Sok-Yong, The Guest   Mine are more benevolent, so I like to think, though it may be Yankee reticence that shuns the autopsy’s gutting, an old eye impaling— uncomfortable, that—for milder terms.   If they resent, they keep it close. I tell Fred and Harry…