Symphony in Yellow: A Young Girl Reading
By Poetry Issue 64
after Fragonard When the first crocuses, the ones called golden crowns and the ones called midnights, push up through February’s mausoleum ground, I think of Fragonard, his patrons dead, the Terror over, the stays of his golden swing now cut. And I am tempted to lie down, even though the ground is cold, and listen…
Read MoreAt the Amphitheatrum Flavium
By Poetry Issue 81
From the Janus view of the Janiculum, a warren of restricted views. To one’s left, the Vatican. Across the river, the Jewish Ghetto created by an edict of a pope, “Since it is absurd and utterly…
Read MorePostscript
By Poetry Issue 81
If you come to this cold bowl with ladle in the moonlight and wish to strip the old self away, on a raw, clear night, some time go out alone, toward the end of the year, on a solitary road, limned by igneous fires, lit micas of snow, until you reach a pasture of cattle…
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