POETRY RUIN Eric Rawson For a time we will move lightly. The ash of evening fills the fields.
We don’t know where to go. We go. Others will come to tell us when
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IN FIFTY YEARS NO ONE WILL KNOW In fifty years no one will know. The heavens will wheel and the trees drop their berries, but no one will know what he knows now about love, the part already...
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Gathering Myself The day growing colder under A thin layer of winter sky A little blue With the crows Bragging immensely in the trees The evening spits up the moon Like a wet seed I come...
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Dear Woman Who Feared for Her Life Was that a whippoorwill You heard among the sparkling trees, An omen of delight? The fireflies weave through leaf And fern, amazing. The bird cries Her single...
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Fishing with the Ghosts of Winter after Russell Banks The man enters his tiny house On the ice, carrying His buckets of bait, gin, and coal. The cove's darkness, the cold fit him Like the...
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