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I want to add my cry to those who would speak for the sound alone.
The Meadow
Marie Howe
As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so
the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together
and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.
Imperceptibly heaving with the old impatience, it knows
for certain that two horses walk upon it, weary of hay.
The horses, sway-backed and self- ( Read more... ) -
Only this time it will be long enough.
Death, the Last Visit ( Read more... ) -
And I'd say, What? // And he'd say, This
The Gate
Marie Howe
I had no idea that the gate I would step through
to finally enter this world
would be the space my brother's body made. He was
a little taller than me: a young man
but grown, himself by then,
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,
rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
and running water.
This is what ( Read more... )