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It's hard to know whether today or yesterday was the full moon;
excitement isn't rigorous. It's just river-silvering
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Letters
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Loss Lieder
Ange Mlinko: It's National Poetry Month, and that means cooked meat.
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A Nurse of Enchantment
Ange Mlinko: Helen Adam wrote to raise gooseflesh. A new collection of her work takes her on her own terms.
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Dreamlife Without Angels
Ange Mlinko: John Ashbery has given us the ideal poetry for the Information Age.
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The Children's Museum
along a repurposed waterfront.
A beach ball floats above the pressurized stream;
it is disequilibrium that keeps it there. Soap's expressed
as blisters when even gravity works backwards
at the limit of the ball held upside down inside the loop.
Rewards in a game they play against themselves
--"Fancy curtseying as you're falling through the air"--
the shade breaks up beneath the oaks
tithing their gifts against the curriculum
of an armed galaxy. It slides into focus for the instant
I'm brrr, blurred.
