For idly sweeping up, from Poem A Day, Volume 2, edited by Laurie Sheck.
from “An archive of confessions, a genealogy of confessions” / by Joshua Clover, b. 1962
The tribe of mothers calls the tribe of children
Across the bluing evening. It’s the hour things get
To be excellently pointless, like describing the alphabet.
For Leonora Carrington’s painting. And, mothers and daughters.
from Baby Giant / by Michele Pizarro Harman
For your birth,
a river-rush basket
lined in fleece,
willow walls,
and knots of pillows
stitched in birds.
From one of the snowbirds — as a child, I spent more than a few snowy, Ohio days on the beaches of Florida, building castles to the tune of cheerful (or so it seemed) grandparents, parents, tourists.
from Looking for the Gulf Motel / by Richard Blanco
I want to find The Gulf Motel exactly as it was
and pretend for a moment, nothing lost is lost.
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