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The People

By David Yezzi Poetry

This is the season of dried rushes and sodden leaf-matter in parks, when the lightly furred animal bodies of the people break out in sores and a mild but insistent contagion blooms in the chilly dampness. The lowered sun does not yet warm them, despite cerulean skies. The meat-headed race trundles along in groups, God…

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Savasana

By David Yezzi Poetry

This is your infinite being. Well, then, I am screwed, since the lozenge-cool om of the yogi misfires: not launching me like a sweat bead to float midair, but jangling my shorted nerves, which despite practice remain fidgety and ridiculously hidebound. And I think, is this it? Is this all I will glimpse in this…

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