Scene Two

Margo Berdeshevsky

In another garden, a poet’s brother had called the lark a fist of blood & feathers; she couldn’t tell me that. A shaman, failed, o my poor brother, she whispered for me to hear. Low light had sprawled on feathers…

Two Poems on the Name of Vermeer

Susan Stewart

Toward the Lake Morning light, light at dusk, now and then a step from each other, the endless tuning of one string against another. Perfection in the first means the second slips down an entire key only to be keyed…

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