I lost summer somewhere in the wildflowers, woke to trees blushing at my disregard, wind hurrying the clouds along. I should have seen the signs. I watched geese abandon their twigged April nests, pin-feathered goslings ripple ponds listless with July.... Continue Reading →
Poet Census Numbered like centuries of chipped stars, we stood, waited to be counted, categorized, divided like sheep and goats by poetry’s crooked staff. Angelou, Atwood, Oliver were lined behind Browning, Dickinson, Rossetti, their mouths fat with words, tongues thick... Continue Reading →
Enough This cold morning what you seek is what raven has. Nothing but sun on his shoulders. About the Poet: Tom Montag is the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013, This Wrecked World, and The Miles... Continue Reading →
Sanborn Library, February The hum of hot water kicking inside hidden pipes belies the library as a respite from noise. The walls’ iron arteries measure time in metallic hisses. An old woman coughs, then turns her page. A young girl,... Continue Reading →
Remember Her When she turns blue Remember her as sky. Grey, she is the sea Leaden, gone, Still half-asleep, Dragging death by a string. It already sounds distant as The sharp gasp of ghost, Punishing us, shy thing, By turning... Continue Reading →
explaining poetry to my grandmother I do not say “I write about myself” because it sounds pretentious to say my bones crash into stanza, where piles of powdery rubble tearing my own physical structure apart— ++++++++++ --limb by limb— ++++++++++... Continue Reading →
Poetry Breakfast 