Poetry

From childhood, on Pitkin and Easton Avenue, I have not been As others were: I have not seen— Portals eclipsed by the clamor of the boulevard,...

Inside the house no snow No wood of footbridges dark with a staying wet in a forest black with green and lore with white But burning hands under...

We need a good soaking rain the kind that grays the sky falls all day puddles on the concrete pours off the roof swells the creek turns it brown & rapid drops...

It races over the Bay of Bengal. It charges through river, paddy, and city. From Boston in my WhatsApp to family in Calcutta, I speak of Arfan. Perhaps...

Paul Buhle: A few words about the poems: These poems could be described as working notes of successive field trips during 1978-83. Poetry, being...

I tied a naked guy up to a bedpost once. I had to go over his instructions carefully before setting out, the door was unlocked,...

The Plague Year Begins Outside the world blooms without us as we picnic alone on whatever was left when the sirens started a burning in the lungs. How...

Curtains draping over lungs netting over the tiny me in my spine melting and wet like a funeral but only stretched out unfurling into snake swelling into netting so large it chokes out the...

The low-slung sun spreads first-light shadows on a deserted road as it slips between dark doors of locked-down stillness towards this fragile frontier-line in human closeness We doff and don and change...

  Image: "Relaxing" by Chris, licensed under CC 2.0. Mary Buchinger: “how readily I assign holy” is part of a series of poems I’ve...

Went to the meditation but only the snowed-in cardinals heard me. Far from any port, we’re weighted by anchors made of phantoms. A few minutes of...

look, proof from satellites: mass graves on Hart Island, an old plot of land I never knew existed & never thought to visit. the unnamed & unclaimed, the...