It’s all in
the sound. A song.
Seldom a song. It should
be a song—made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian—something
immediate, open
scissors, a lady’s
eyes—waking
centrifugal, centripetal
Poetry 365
Inspired by Billy Collins' Poetry 180 project, I post one poem per day here, for at least a year. | tags by author or subject | contact me here
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I’m in for a Wallace Stevens, “The Death of a Soldier” Life contracts and death is expected, As in a season of autumn....
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I’ll call, with “In...Beginning” by Rainer Maria Rilke.
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