In the patient, quiet museum, she is exhibitedclosed, indehiscent inside a glass casket,
reclining on her back, on hair long as her spine.
In the morning we found40 acres of oakstorn to the ground.
And for his human guests, imperial excess strainingall credulity: say a nightingale embalmed in honeyand stuffed in a swan […]
The Plat Book
cast our farmand neighbors’farms as flat […]
We dug potatoes from their cabinets of soil, watchedthe belly of the earth turn over in its grave, a glimpse of fleshthrough darkening ground, roots and greenlings—then the plow.
The pang and clangor of pitch-dense woodin the stove and the odd, almost syncopatedpops of studs, joists, and rafters as they warm […]
In the alluvium ofthe hot afternoon,where the day’s clarities […]
If it doesn’t rhyme, it’s not poetry? Quick, somebody tell Shakespeare.
Two VQR contributors are interviewed for “American Experience.”
Well, here we are again, old friend, Ancient of Days,
Eyeball to eyeball.