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From Forrest Gander:

January 20, 2018

Maybe it’s like that,
only all along it was
obscured by what —
rush, distraction? Fog.
A pine. Querying
grosbeak. Something
shifts. You find
yourself in another
world you weren’t
looking for where
what you see is that
you have always been
the wolves
at the door.

Stepping Out of the Light

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From Sylvia Plath:

January 18, 2018

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her—
The mausoleum, the wax house.

Stings

.

From Alice Oswald

January 16, 2018

outside my sleep
a sharp intake of air

a fox in her fox-fur
stepping across
the grass in her black gloves
barked at my house

just so abrupt and odd
the way she went
hungrily asking
in the heart’s thick accent

in such serious sleepless
trespass she came
a woman with a man’s voice
but no name

– Fox

 

From Beth Bachmann:

January 14, 2018

To swallow fire, first, listen to the direction of the wind.

If you are not careful, you can always hear the birds.

The trick is stillness. When I say, wait, don’t move, don’t

move. Pleasure is blinding but pain is a different beast.

At what point does the hand stop being the hand?

 

muse of arms

From Susan Landers:

January 12, 2018

dew grass a fire shine
mountain a lung
pine cone the bone
tsunami rock hawk jaw
gravity a fall all consuming
a song chirp for sunlight
spine daggers cracking
the sky an ocean paused in its crashing

I Don’t Know What You’re Called, I’ll Call You by Your Sounds

From Yeats:

January 10, 2018

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.

– The Hosting of the Sidhe

From Louise Erdrich:

January 9, 2018

The cats wind together in the barn.
Their weightless bodies fly across the field like scarves.
Draped on a woodpile, vibrating
in a patch of sun,
their eyes are frozen glass.
Their mouths,
lined with rose petals,
shirred with bloody silks
and bone needles,
open with delicate interest
of the very old angels, the first ones,
in whose eyes burned the great showers of the damned.

– Angels

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