Poetry | Page 4 | wisconsinacademy.org
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Poetry

The red edge of morning, like a razor,slits the dark. No more excuses. TodayI will be sharpened. I will be moremyself as I would be. No espaliered

She starved herselfthinking about grace.How difficult it was

to be nothingbut flesh: prickly, contrarious,pretending to get by

Your dead father dogs youlike the white mutt that roams

along the fishing holes and walksthe edge of gravel roads, sometimes

at a trot, most times slow,but with purpose, muscle and sinew

There’s something to be saidabout standing on the center lineof a bustling four-lane road,cars skimming by in front and behind meas I watch my stainless steel thermosbumble along toward the opposite curb

There’s a truck double-parked in the only parking spot.The guy at the counter owns a construction business,

First, find the reliquary:Collect the bones of the mammoth,regurgitated onto the shoreby the agitate cycle of thawing permafrost,rinse clean by the frigid lake’s lapping,swelled in a jumble of reeds

A man on a bicycle.Does he strain into his vocal cordsbecause he is angry, wonderwhy he is riding on this trackgoing around in circlesas his life seems to veer offin jagged directions, no winding

First cited in the sixteenth century (specifically in a book called Dice-Play), the expression [brown study]—which describes a state of intense, sometimes melancholy reverie, really seems to have hit i

of the need for lyricwhispers and fingertipsbehind my earlike a distant melody

of dappled water that flowswhere tulips opentheir soft petals spreadinglike a morning yawn

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