Thursday, December 27, 2012

The Stethoscope By Anne Winter

Like Helen's comet, bending on its tail,
You curl beneath the black cup on mu skin:
I guess at limbs in half-eclipse, obscure
and fluent as a distant telegram.
Unworldly, small, sealed orders, darkroom heat,
Soon among the signals pulsed, the static whoosh,
arrives in distant thuds your rapider than human
heartbeat-gender unknown-but eyes-
Yet of our world you only know the tree
you lie beneath, its root your belly, fronds
and villi falling in the sunken lake
of capillaries, bubbles, breathing bonds...
I sigh, and somewhere you incline your vast
night-sighted brow-
your jointed, swimming hands-

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Attention By Kay Ryan

As strong as
the suction cups
on the octopus
are the valves
of the attention.
If threatened
or pulled off
they leave welts
and pink rings.
but also
can unstick
from things.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Percy Cowherd

Who is astir in the early morning?
Who lies abed?
Who wastes the milk when it sours?
Who makes cheese?
Who nosed around my barns
and almost broke me?
Who forced me into the trust,
and thereby saved me?
What made Chicago?
The kick of a cow!
All the big milk-men
up there now,
In a skyscraper, Gentlemen, see
I learned about everything
Just through milk.
and why compare it to human kindness?
Because it is watered or sours or contains
germs that fatigue you? Look at that grave-That's Roscoe Purkapile's!

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Monday, December 3, 2012

The Girl Opening Up

like a rose in May,
the girl opening up.
Morning dew on greenest leaves,
soft breeze kisses
the crispy air in the garden.
New roof, shining grey, young grass,
full of energy.
Blonde hair curls like a staircase,
and it lays out like layered staircase,
and it is novel staircase.
The girl opening up,
closing her windows.
And she opens her door,
she walks out, knows it's a sunny morning.

In the Greenroom By Donald Justice

How reassuring
to discover them
in the greenroom, Here.
Relaxing, they drop
the patronynics
by which we had come.
To know them, the cross
are no more cross,
The old dance, not have
the young sacrificed
their advantages
in this it is like
a kind of heaven
they rise to simply
by being themselves.
The sound of the axe
Biting the wood is
Rewound on the tape
What is this green for
if not renewal?