Poetry

I slip beneath the surface in January, so cold the water steams from the pool into the air like effervescent waves— you could blow them with a breath and watch as they take

after John Sloan’s “The Picnic Grounds” When asked, the painter said it was a device to enable visitors to stroll about at night. His picnickers flirt—three women circling a man— their

Rose-breasted grosbeak, feeder visitor, it’s mother’s day and I’m marrying and adopting in one giant late-middle-age swoop. Can your male spring plumage top that? Yours is a rare beauty, rarely

First, too much play would cause the crotch-tab to Break off; the thumb was often the next part To crack when holding weapons stressed its glue— And last, the band which joined the

less than ninety degrees from the ground, so it seems manageable, or worse? depends on which way i’m going. split the word and it’s more fun: i picture a newborn tiger,